Freefall
by ladyoflilacs
Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. A retelling of Deathly Hallows. Rated M for Harry/Voldemort slash.
1. I:1

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Takes place during Deathly Hallows.

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><p>PART I: THE CALM BEFORE<p>

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><p>1.<p>

Harry couldn't sleep.

His eyes were burning with exhaustion as he struggled to make sense of the words before him. A large, dusty tome lay open in front of him on the kitchen table in Number 12, Grimmauld Place, and his head rested heavily against his hand. Every few minutes, he would feel his eyelids begin to droop, his head slowly growing heavier, until his forehead would nearly slip off of his hand and he would be jolted back to reality.

Harry dragged his gaze to the clock above the stove. It was past three in the morning. Running a hand over his face, the boy sighed and returned his attention to the book.

He knew, however, that it wasn't a passionate interest in _A Magical History: 125 BC-650 AD_ that was keeping him from his bed tonight.

Harry _wouldn't_ sleep.

He was already long accustomed to the dreams, snippets of Voldemort's life, desires, annoyances. He had participated in some rather disastrous Occlumency lessons during his fifth year in an attempt to stop them, but his strong dislike of Severus Snape and his immense difficulty with the subject prevented him from advancing very far in the brief course of his lessons.

And after the abrupt conclusion of his lessons with Snape, Harry had never found himself worried about his inadequacy with the skill; there was no harm in the dreams if he didn't pay them any mind …

_(not like that time when he'd dreamt of Sirius and the Department of Mysteries and of screaming and blood and he had led his godfather right into Voldemort's trap and then Sirius had died and it was all his fault and)_

Harry paused and shook the flood of memories out of his mind, trying to bring his concentration back to the book in front of him. It still pained him to think of it; two years had passed, but the gaping hole that his godfather had left in his heart was still achingly raw. He wouldn't let it happen again, he told himself; the dreams wouldn't matter, they couldn't hurt anyone, as long as Harry didn't foolishly act on them again.

But it wasn't only dreams that he was having have trouble with now.

Harry's eyes began to feel heavy in his head once again, and the words on the pages seemed to be squirming away from his vision. Harry blinked groggily a few times, trying to bring the words back into focus, but they wouldn't stay still long enough for him to finish the sentence he had been reading. If only he could close his eyes for just … one … minute …

"_Harry …_"

The boy sat up abruptly, eyes snapping open, suddenly wide awake. He looked around the kitchen, heart beating hard against his chest, and it was not for a few moments until he realized that his scar was prickling beneath his fingers.

There was no one there. And how was that possible? It had sounded as though someone had been standing directly behind him, lips at his ear, whispering his name as softly and clearly as though those two syllables held the most magic in the world.

Harry rubbed his forehead absentmindedly, as though the friction of his fingers could chase the prickling from his scar. He realized that his skin had erupted into goosebumps, and he removed his hand from his face to rub at his arms, trying to get rid of those, too.

The voice had first come to him three weeks ago, the first night after they had fled to Grimmauld Place.

He had been wrapped inside of a sleeping bag in the drawing room, eyes shut, feeling exhausted and troubled and afraid all at the same time. His mind was a mess of turmoil and fear, replaying behind his closed eyes the disastrous events of the wedding and all that had followed it over and over and over again. He knew the vast expectations that his friends had for him, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, but he didn't know what he was supposed to do or how to do it, or even where to start looking. He was confused, and angry, and more scared than he had ever been in his entire life. And he had finally been drifting off to the sweet, promising escape of sleep when he'd heard a whisper, softly, from the dark, inner folds of his mind:

"_Harry."_

The sound of his name hadn't jarred him awake then, as it would three weeks later, but rather seemed to relax him further. He suddenly couldn't remember what it was he had been so upset about. He felt very comfortable, like he was sinking into a dark and smoky cloud …

"_Yes, that's it, Harry … relax."_

Wasn't there something familiar about that voice? But that should be a good thing, Harry thought to himself; if the voice was familiar to him, that meant he should trust it.

"_Yes, very good, Harry. Relax. It is such a heavy burden that you bear … and you must be very tired_."

He _was_ tired, so tired. He was on the precipice of sleep now, flirting with the edge of the dark abyss that was simply dreamless, painless, fearless night. He was so close …

And then he felt it. At first, it was like a gentle itch inside his skull, barely noticeable, barely there. Harry probably wouldn't have even been able to tell that it was there at all if he had been any closer to that cliff, if he had just taken one more step off of the edge into sleep.

But then the itch began to intensify slightly, a soft, vague nudging at the back of his mind—no, not a nudging, a _tugging_, almost like … like

(_an extraction_)

a memory being removed to watch in a Pensieve. But he had never removed a memory from his mind before … how could he dream about something he had never experienced? Unless …

Harry attempted to drag himself from the seduction of sleep, of this dark cloud enveloping his consciousness.

"_Harry._"

There was a hint of something else to the voice now … annoyance? Anger?

"_I need you to tell me something, Harry ..."_

Something was wrong.

Harry began struggling now, eyes flickering madly behind his eyelids, but he was so _tired, _wasn't he? How was he supposed to wake up, to face his friends and their expectations and the world, when he was just so _tired_? It would be so much

(_easier_)

nicer to stay here, in bed, to step off of that cliff, to stay in this dark, warm space …

The voice seemed to come from very far away now, or was it just even closer?—muffled from the inner folds of his mind:

"_Where are you, Harry Potter_?"

(_no no no no no no no_)

The blurry image of Grimmauld Place began to rise, unbidden, before his inner eye. Harry felt himself struggling, thrashing beneath his bedcovers somewhere else, in another world, as he tried desperately to push the image of the street from his thoughts. He couldn't think of the number, he couldn't; he wasn't completely sure why, but he knew that to think of the number of the house, to picture it in his mind—it would ruin everything—

(_no no no no no no NO_ _NO)_

"_Tell me where you are!_"

"No!"

And suddenly Harry had been thrown back into the drawing room, and he was sitting up in his sleeping bag, drenched in a cold sweat, breathing hard and fast and his heart beating even faster. He ignored Ron and Hermione's frantic questions as he fumbled quickly for his wand and his glasses—he needed to see, he needed to make sure—

"_Lumos_!"

He stared around the drawing room, his breathing harsh, wand raised. He realized suddenly that he was shaking, his scar burning across his forehead.

There was no one else in the room; there was only Ron and Hermione, staring fearfully at him and clutching at their sleeping bags, the frightened expressions on their faces eerie in his wandlight.

And the voice had gone.


	2. I:2

Warnings: Eventual slash, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Rated M for eventual HP/LV slash.

A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing! I hope you enjoy the next chapter.

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><p>2.<p>

"We need a plan."

Hermione looked very serious over her bowl of porridge, eyebrows furrowed across her forehead. They weren't as bushy as they used to be, Harry noticed distractedly, and he was vaguely reminded of how pretty she had looked at the Yule Ball. That seemed like a million years ago now, an entirely different lifetime. Voldemort had still hardly been a thought in the back of anyone's head, nevermind a quite literal presence in his own.

"You think?" said Ron through a mouthful of eggs. Hermione shot him a reproachful look, and he paused to swallow. "But how the hell are we supposed to just waltz into the Ministry of Magic? They've got people looking for Harry everywhere."

Harry glanced up at the sound of his name. He was still sitting in the chair in which he had kept vigil all night long, and he was vaguely aware of a burning in his eyes.

"_Harry!_" Hermione gasped, looking at him for the first time that morning. "What is wrong with your eyes, did you even get any sleep?"

"I … er," Harry mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "I woke up in the middle of the night, and I couldn't fall back asleep, 'cause I had a bad … er … a stomachache," he finished lamely.

Hermione frowned at him, and Harry wished dearly that she would save that particular expression for Ron's tendency to speak with a mouth full of food.

"Harry, you're having dreams about _him_ again, aren't you?" she said, her voice low, as though even the mention of the pronoun would draw Voldemort's attention to their kitchen table.

"No," Harry replied irritably, "I told you, I was feeling nauseous." He dropped his eyes to his own bowl of porridge, which had remained untouched since Hermione had placed it in front of him ten minutes earlier.

"I thought you said you had a stomachache?" Ron said, frowning, before Hermione shushed him. Harry shot a glare in his direction before returning his gaze to his porridge.

"Look, Harry, I know it's hard to talk about," Hermione began, and Harry restrained the urge to roll his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ron doing the same: this was a speech with which they were both quite familiar.

"… explain all the specifics, but I think that it's _very _important that we start thinking about finding a way to further your studies in Occlumency," Hermione was saying, her tone concerned and insistent. "You really shouldn't be giving Voldemort such free access to your mind, he's already taken advantage of it before, and Dumbledore wouldn't have required you to—"

Hermione stopped mid-sentence when Ron kicked her under the table, and she realized quickly the mistake she had made—more of a double whammy, really—in her last sentence. Her mouth clicked shut audibly. Harry didn't see this; he was staring fixedly at his bowl of oatmeal, jaw clenched and emotion welling in his chest.

"Harry—" Hermione beckoned softly, her voice suddenly gentle.

"I'm going upstairs," Harry interrupted. He pushed his chair back and left the room before they could stop him, a painful knot tightening behind his navel. It was bad enough living back in Grimmauld Place again without Hermione constantly throwing

(_accusations harsh words bad memories_)

reminders at him that Sirius' death had been his fault.

Miserable, Harry climbed the staircase up from the basement to the first floor, where he found himself back in the drawing room. His sleeping bag lay unused in the corner of the room; he had quietly left it there late last night when he was sure that his friends were asleep, so that he could sneak in peace down to the kitchen. Harry had been afraid to give Voldemort another opportunity to pick through his mind.

Now Harry found himself struggling to look anywhere but his sleeping bag. The pile of blankets in the corner looked extremely tempting given his dire lack of sleep, but Harry was determined to stay awake until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

Since the first night that Voldemort had invaded his semi-consciousness, Harry had found that nearly passing out from exhaustion kept his mind out of that ripe state of relaxed pre-slumber for as short of a time as possible. Admitting this to his friends, however, seemed out of the question for the time being: Harry didn't think he could stand listening to Hermione's scolding about his Occlumency lessons one more time.

Harry tore his tired eyes from his sleeping bag and turned instead to the other most prominent object in the room: the large tapestry hanging on the wall detailing the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black's lineage. He walked over to the wall, tracing the golden threads to the point on the tapestry where Sirius' name would have been had his mother not blasted it off many years ago.

And then, a memory flashed into his mind

(_of Sirius laughing as they tried everything possible to tug the cursed tapestry off of the wall, of the Permanent Sticking Charm keeping it there, of Sirius' smile, his barking laugh as he fondly recalled Harry's father, of a dirty mansion and a lonely man and a boy longing for love_)

of Sirius. Harry remembered Sirius' strained expression as he described the different members of his pureblood family, the bitterness in his voice, his eyes.

For the short while (_too short_) that Harry had known him, Sirius had never been happy. Sirius had spent thirteen years in a hellhole sucking out whatever happiness he had left—and now he would never have a chance at regaining that happiness.

Harry saw sudden movement out of the corner of his eye, and he grimaced, hoping that it wasn't Hermione coming to continue her lecture—or worse, Kreacher coming to mutter about how Harry was defiling the house with his presence. When he looked up, however, he realized that no one had come into the room; the source of the movement had come from a photograph laying on Hermione's sleeping bag. Curious, Harry walked a little closer to see it better, and was surprised when he saw himself waving up out of the picture.

Harry bent over and picked up the photograph from the sleeping bag, examining it. It was a photo taken of Dumbledore's Army from his fifth year, just before everyone had left for Christmas break. There he was, standing in the middle, with Ron and Hermione on either side of him; there was Neville, and Luna, and Seamus Finnigan, all waving cheerfully at the camera. Cho Chang stood to the left of Ron, throwing nervous, blushing glances in Harry's direction, and Ginny stood next to Cho, badly disguising the glare that she kept aiming at the girl beside her.

Ginny. Harry felt his chest constrict at the thought of his best friend's sister, and he suddenly wished that she was there with him now. Sighing, Harry slid down the wall to sit, staring at the picture with a longing so strong it was painful. He closed his eyes and pictured Ginny in his mind, her shockingly red hair, her bright hazel eyes, the wrinkle in her forehead when she found something amusing.

She was so beautiful, and Harry felt something in his chest squeeze with anxiety as he thought about her alone at Hogwarts, the war pressing up against the school gates.

Harry went to get up, determined to find another distraction, but found with a start that he was having a great deal of difficulty moving. In fact, it seemed as though his eyes were refusing to open at all.

Ginny's face would not leave his thoughts, Harry realized, and he felt his stomach plunge. Her eyes burned stronger in his mind, her hair redder, her smile growing to a point that was almost sickening.

And then, a whisper—soft, tender, almost familiar to him now:

"_Harry_."

Somewhere far away, Harry felt his body thrash involuntarily against the wall, distantly aware that his nails were biting into his palms—but that was in another world, another universe; here, there was only darkness, and Ginny's smile, and the soft whisper inside of his head.

"_Is that your lover, Harry? What a pretty little thing she is. Such a shame; she will have to die, too, you know_. _They all will, all for their brave little hero who will allow so many to die in his place._"

It occurred to him that there was blood, now, that his nails had punctured his skin. He could not feel the stinging of his palms, though, only the burning of his scar, the twisting of his stomach as the smile on Ginny's face stretched wider, wider, almost inhuman now—

"_You know, she looks very much like your mother did, Harry. I wonder if she will cry when I kill her, too."_

Harry heard someone screaming somewhere, and his body writhed across the floor as he tried to do anything, everything, to remove Ginny's face from his mind, but it seemed to be fixed there, as if bound by a Permanent Sticking Charm of its own.

"_I will find her, Harry, and I will kill her. I will kill all of them_, _like little pests. I will crush them with the heel of my foot, and then I will find you and I will kill you, too._"

The sound of screaming seemed to be coming closer, and Harry realized that the screams were being torn from his own throat.

"_Now, tell me, Harry …"_

(_pain in his palms, pain on his forehead, Ginny's grinning face burning a gruesome image behind his eyes, and screaming, screaming, screaming_)

"_Where are you?_"

A shock of ice cold water hit his face, and then, with a deep, shuddering gasp, Harry's eyes flew wide open. In an instant, he had found himself back in the drawing room, soaked in water and sweat and blood, shaking and shivering and weeping. Hermione and Ron stood over him, their faces pale with fright. Hermione's wand was still dripping with water.

Harry stared unblinkingly at them, or past them, or through them. He was still shaking violently from the shock of the cold water, the sobs wracking his gut, the trauma of the entire experience.

And then his body, without consulting his mind first, suddenly gave in to the exhaustion that had seeped into his bones. With a soft whimper, Harry's eyes fluttered shut. Darkness engulfed him whole, and he descended into the cavernous expanse that was sleep.

The photograph of his closest friends lay crumpled and bloodied in his fist.


	3. I:3

Warnings: Eventual slash, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Rated M for eventual HP/LV slash.

A/N: Thanks again for all the reviews! This chapter is a little longer than the others. I'm doing the best that I can to keep them in character, so I'm trying to build up the tension between them. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

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><p>3.<p>

_How dare he!_

Harry stormed upstairs, his heart pounding furiously, disgusted. He felt Ron and Hermione's accusing eyes on the back of his head as he disappeared up the stairs, the air in the foyer still unbearably thick with the tension from Lupin's visit to Grimmauld Place. Harry had been outraged by the idea of Lupin leaving Tonks, pregnant and alone, to join them on their fruitless quest for Horcruxes. Being a werewolf did not relieve Lupin of being a father, no matter the circumstances.

_No parent should ever leave their child_ _unless they have to_.

Harry had just spoken these words to Hermione a moment ago, and he found the thought flitting through his mind once more, a sense of righteousness accompanying them. He had been right, Harry thought to himself, relieved, as he continued up to the third floor and then to the fourth. Perhaps he could have been nicer about it, but that wasn't what mattered. Lupin belonged at home, with his wife and his unborn child. He had been right to turn Lupin away.

Sirius' room had become a source of comfort for Harry during the past few weeks that they'd spent in Grimmauld Place, and it was here that Harry found himself after his argument with Lupin. The Gryffindor banners plastered across the majority of the wall space here provided a sweet familiarity and a welcome contrast to the dreary, dark, Slytherin colors that pervaded in the rest of the Black house.

Harry collapsed onto Sirius' old bed, trying to still his racing heart. When he closed his eyes, he could almost picture Sirius sitting in this room, not much younger than Harry was now, taking refuge from his parents much like Harry was now taking refuge from his friends.

A lurch of rage shot through Harry's gut at the thought. Why should he need to take refuge from his own friends? Couldn't they see how wrong Lupin was to abandon his family and simply show up on their doorstep, ready to throw away his paternal responsibility for a bit of glory? Harry scowled up at the ceiling where a poster of a Muggle girl in a bathing suit smiled back at him. Lupin had Stunned him before he had left, Harry realized. Harry hadn't been thinking clearly enough to process what was happening at the time, but now he was aware of a sharp throbbing in his shoulders from where they had collided with the kitchen wall.

His fury opened up inside of him again, a vast wound beneath his skin, so fierce that it gave him a headache.

"_So much anger."_

Harry scrambled to sit up, biting his lip and staring around the room, although he knew without looking that he was perfectly alone. Voldemort's occasional invasion of his privacy was becoming less and less of a surprise the more that it happened.

Furrowing his brow, Harry closed his eyes, attempting to remove himself of all emotion. He knew he should be happy that he didn't seem to be losing consciousness this time, but Harry had hoped that his Occlumency practice would have led to at least a little progress in keeping Voldemort's probing fingers from his thoughts.

After the last episode in the drawing room, Harry had allowed Hermione to speak for as long as she wanted about the extensive Occlumency research that she'd conducted behind Harry's back. All of her research had turned up little more than what Snape had told him during their horrible private lessons: clear your mind, empty your senses, calm yourself, and you will be able to close off the connection.

Thinking about Hermione researching Occlumency behind his back, however, seemed to open up a whole new sore of its own. Harry felt anger viciously flare up inside of his chest again, before it was drowned out by a throbbing shock in his scar and the sound of soft, icy laughter in a room many miles away.

"_All of this unbridled emotion, Harry—you sicken me."_

The voice was like silk, sliding down Harry's spine.

Harry scowled at this. What right did Voldemort have to criticize his emotions? He remembered briefly the flash of Voldemort's rage, many times more violent than his own, after Harry and his friends had escaped from the wedding untouched.

"_Oh, yes, very _good_, Harry_," the voice whispered softly, dangerously._ "Do not ever doubt the extent of my wrath."_

And Harry was suddenly consumed by it; he was overcome by so much anger that it was painful. Voldemort's rage seemed to wash over him in violent incessant waves, a never-ending ocean of hatred, setting Harry's body on fire. He felt his throat constrict, a silent scream fighting to escape, but no sound would leave his mouth—the pain was worse than anything he had ever felt, the magnitude of Lord Voldemort's wrath.

And just as suddenly, it was over. Harry felt himself trembling, gasping for air. It was not for a few moments before the voice slid over his skin again, every syllable pronounced with meaningful intention.

"_I admit, there are a great many things that infuriate me, the greatest of all being you. But you fail to recognize the distinction that separates us—and there are many things that separate us, do not forget that, Harry. My anger is directed, a tool that I can use, a means to an end. But your feelings are entirely out of your control. They cloud your reasoning, your magic, your thoughts; you are positively bubbling over with disgusting sentiment."_

Harry was still short of breath, his scar burning as he stared up at the ceiling. The voice seemed to vibrate through every pore of his body, lethal, but quiet, almost loving, as though speaking to a small child.

"_Your passion will kill you, in the end._"

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><p>The sun was bright against his face, the fall air crisp and cool. Harry felt strangely naked standing in this crowd of people with only his invisibility cloak separating him from the faces of various Death Eaters that he recognized on the street.<p>

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been taking turns every day waiting outside the Ministry entrance with Harry's invisibility cloak, watching for any sign of Umbridge and the locket that housed a piece of Voldemort's soul.

It had been almost a month since the wedding, and the trio was no closer to learning anything about Umbridge and the Horcrux than they had been at the beginning of the summer. Ron had speculated that Umbridge travelled to the Ministry using Floo powder, that she might be too "important" to Apparate to work, but it did not hold them back from making these daily trips to London, lurking outside the Ministry of Magic and hoping for a glimpse of anything that might help them.

That was not to say that the trips had been altogether useless; they had been able to pick up tidbits of information from eavesdropping on passing conversations and stealing copies of the _Daily Prophet_. But they saw no sign of the locket or of Umbridge.

"Harry Potter has been sighted!"

The sound of his name nearly made his heart stop.

Harry clutched at his cloak, making sure that it was covering every inch of his body. When he was certain that it was, the boy swiveled around, scanning the crowd to find who had spoken.

It did not take him long; a small witch dressed eccentrically in purple robes (and drawing rather strange looks from the Muggles passing by her) was standing next to a wizard who was wearing badly arranged Muggle clothing. They were whispering and gesturing enthusiastically at the morning's copy of the _Daily Prophet_. Harry breathed out a sigh of relief; no one had seen him. It was just a stupid article in the _Prophet._

Despite the number of times he had already visited the Ministry beneath his cloak, it still unnerved Harry to be out in public after their many weeks of hiding out at Grimmauld Place. There had been multiple instances so far like this one, when Harry had been sure that everything was ruined, that someone had definitely seen him, that the sky would turn black with approaching Death Eaters at any moment. He could not shake the feeling that he was being watched, even though he knew he was completely invisible.

As the morning wore on and it became clear that Umbridge was not going to turn up, Harry began to look for a copy of the day's _Daily Prophet_, interested in the lies that they were spreading about his whereabouts. He kept his eyes peeled for newspapers in satchels, briefcases, and bags, tucked away haphazardly by busy witches and wizards hurrying late to work.

A man brushed passed Harry hurriedly, a bag slung over his shoulder, the bold title of _The Daily Prophet_ plain on the newspaper hanging out of a pocket of the bag. Here was his chance.

Quietly, and being sure to keep the cloak tucked close around him, Harry followed the man as inconspicuously as possible. The crowd was thicker this close to the entrance, and Harry had to be very careful not to touch any of the people around him. He was gaining on the man, now—just another second longer, and he would be able to reach out and grab the paper—

A lot of things happened at once. Harry's fingers reached out from under the cloak, visible for a split second, to snatch the newspaper from the bag. At that same moment, the man spun around suddenly, turning to stare at the exact spot in which Harry stood. The man's gaze fell to the newspaper, where Harry's hand held it in the middle of the air, before Harry yanked his hand and newspaper back under the cloak.

Harry's and the man's eyes simultaneously widened in recognition: the man he had just tried to steal from was Yaxley, a Death Eater.

Yaxley's mouth curled into a horrible smile as he stared at Harry, and for a terrible moment, Harry wondered if he could see through the cloak. But before he could reason with himself-of course he couldn't see through the cloak, Harry was _invisible-_there was a loud _CRACK_, and Yaxley vanished.

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit …_

Many people were looking in his direction now, looking for the source of the noise Yaxley had made Apparating. Harry's heart was pounding, his mind racing as he tried desperately to figure out what to do. He couldn't Apparate in front of all these Muggles, not now that Yaxley had already Apparated and drawn attention to him. But Yaxley wasn't likely to leave this alone—in fact, he had probably Apparated straight to—

Hot, searing pain suddenly ripped across his forehead, and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. He shoved his fist in his mouth to keep himself from crying out as a vision of Yaxley burned behind his eyelids, except the horrible smile he had worn had been replaced by screams; Yaxley was writhing on a tile floor, yelling in pain.

"My lord, my lord, please!" Yaxley cried, and Harry lifted the curse off of the incompetent man. He loathed to be interrupted without warning.

Yaxley scrambled to his knees, panting, head bowed. "I'm so very sorry to burst in like this, my lord, but I was being followed, I always know when I am-"

"_And what concern of mine is this?_" Harry-no, _Voldemort_-demanded, red eyes flashing with anger.

"It's him, my lord, it's Potter, I'm sure it is—he's under his cloak outside of the Ministry!"

The leap of pleasure that Voldemort felt at these words threatened to send Harry over the edge. Yaxley gave him a tentative smile, still on his knees, desperate to avoid another dose of the _Cruciatus_.

Harry placed his wand gently beneath Yaxley's chin and lifted the man's face to look at him. "Well done, Yaxley. Bring me to him, _now_."

And then Harry was back in the street, his teeth digging into his curled fist, eyes wide and forehead throbbing. He thought his heart might burst out of his chest if it was beating any harder.

Bring me to him, Voldemort had said. Yaxley was bringing Voldemort here, to the Ministry of Magic, to where Harry was waiting, alone, with no one to help him.

Harry was expecting it by now, but that did not make it any less terrifying when Voldemort's voice penetrated his skull, ringing in his ears, accompanied by the now-familiar sensation that his forehead was splitting apart.

"_Did you think you could walk so freely through my streets, Harry Potter? You stupid, useless little boy; blind courage will only lead you to death. And here I had made the mistake of thinking you possessed some small shred of intelligence. I'm going to kill you now, Harry. It could be simple, painless. Do not move._

"_I am coming for you._"

And to Harry's horror, he found that his legs had turned to lead, that he could barely take a step forward, never mind flee. Frantically, he tried to move, to run, to do anything at all. Down the road, a woman began screaming.

He was here, in the street. Harry could feel him there without seeing him, hear his own blood pulsing through the Dark Lord's veins before he heard his voice, ringing high and clear and horrible in the silence that had fallen over the square.

"We have a criminal among us."

Muggles, witches, and wizards alike glanced apprehensively about the square. The

(_power,_ _strength, incredible magic_)

authority emanating from Voldemort was clear and terrifying to those who did not even know who he was, never mind the difference between a pureblood and a Muggle.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort's voice was as clear and ringing as ever, but it had fallen to a whisper, as soft and dangerous as it had been in the inner workings of Harry's mind, slithering across his goosebumps in the dark of night.

"_Come to me, Harry_."

It was now or never. Whatever fear was keeping his legs stuck to the ground be damned; he wasn't going to die here, hiding under his invisibility cloak. Harry squeezed shut his eyes, clutched the cloak to his body as tight as he could, concentrated on the image of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, and Apparated.

* * *

><p>Harry burst into the foyer at Number 12 as if propelled by a burst of wind, slamming the door loudly behind him. He threw the invisibility cloak off of his body as he sunk to the floor, his heart still beating furiously inside his chest.<p>

In an instant, Hermione and Ron were at his side, kneeling beside him, frightened by his sudden entrance. Harry leaned bodily against the door, one hand clamped to his forehead and the other splayed against his heaving chest. He saw his friends exchange worried looks

He looked up at them for a moment, taking in the panicked expressions on their faces, before his scar was set aflame once again. Harry cringed, eyes screwing shut, clawing at his forehead and fighting the urge to cry out. Voldemort was overcome with fury, he knew, and a morbid smile stretched Harry's lips in satisfaction even as he resisted the impulse to shout from the pain. Voldemort had been so certain that Harry was worn down enough to give up, to reveal himself right there in the square.

_Did you think you knew me so well, Tom?_ Harry thought to himself, and that smile continued to twist his face. _Did you really think I would give up so easily? I am not afraid of you._

His forehead ripped open again, pain searing across his head, but there was no response from his enemy. Voldemort's anger was beyond words.

When Harry opened his eyes again, he saw Hermione holding one hand to her mouth in shock, Ron staring down at Harry uncertainly, frightened by him. _They don't understand_, Harry thought. _They can't_._ They never will_.

"Tomorrow," Harry wheezed, before he cleared his throat, trying to calm his breath, his heart. "Tomorrow," he repeated, his voice clearer. "We need to go tomorrow."

"To … t-to the Ministry?" Hermione said, her voice shaking. "But Harry, what happened to you? You look—"

"It doesn't matter," said Harry flatly. He struggled to his feet, grateful that his legs were finally working, and scooped the cloak up with him. "This is too dangerous, walking around the street outside the Ministry every day."

"But … are you sure we're ready?" Ron said uncertainly. He paused, and then added hesitantly, "You look awful, mate."

"We need to get it over with," Harry continued through a clenched jaw, grimacing from the pain in his forehead. He ignored Ron's look of concern. "We're as prepared as we'll ever be. We know as much as we can know lurking outside the Ministry like that, and one of us are going to get hurt soon if we keep constantly putting ourselves in danger. We go tomorrow."

"But—"

Harry pushed past them, his head pounding something fierce. Hermione and Ron watched him, confused and concerned, as he stumbled up the staircase.

He needed to splash his face with water, to lie down in Sirius' bed, to be alone. He needed sleep.


	4. I:4

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort. ** This chapter contains adult content. You've been warned.

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Takes place during DH. Rated M for eventual HP/LV slash.

A/N: Wow, thank you for all the positive responses! I really appreciate those of you who have taken the time to sit and write a review, and even if you don't have the time to, I'm so grateful to anyone that is reading this at all. I hope you enjoy the next chapter - you've got the beginnings of some slash heading your way. I'm trying so hard to keep them both in character while making this sort of fic work (I really can't stand reading HP/LV fics when either one of them is OOC), so bear with me as I try to build up some sexual tension here. And thank you again for any and all reviews; if you have a second, please do let me know what you think!

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><p>4.<p>

It was well past midnight, and the next morning held the terrifying unknown that the Ministry of Magic would bring.

And yet, Harry was still awake.

Eyes closed, lips parted, Harry allowed his mind to drift. His hand wandered down his chest and up his shirt, rubbing the skin of his stomach with feather-light touches. The silence, so sweet, was almost deafening, and Voldemort's absence from his mind was as prominent as the silence itself.

It was easy to pretend in the darkness.

Harry was pretending, for instance, that he was laying not in Sirius' bed (he had ceased to sleep in the drawing room since he had begun sneaking out on a regular basis, and Hermione and Ron had not protested), but in the Gryffindor dormitory, safe behind a wall of maroon curtains. Ginny had crept into his dormitory, and she was here with him now, laying beside him, pressing open kisses against his mouth and touching his chest, his arms, his neck. There was no war, no Horcruxes, no Voldemort—only the flowery smell of Ginny's hair, and the press of her lips against his neck, and the sweet, all-consuming darkness that drowned his anxieties.

Anything was possible in the dark. Harry couldn't believe that he had once been afraid of the darkness, of the night, of the unknown—but the unknown was beautiful to him, now. He could shape it to be whatever he wanted.

Harry abruptly realized that his thoughts were no longer private. He easily sensed Voldemort's presence in the back of his mind now, for it had come to live as naturally there as would a half-forgotten memory. Harry's hand faltered for only a moment before it continued its journey across his chest. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and shut his eyes a little tighter, trying to continue to pretend that Voldemort did not exist.

He would not be afraid. He was not be scared of Voldemort, of a demon who could only face him in nightmares. He was not afraid of darkness.

Harry slid his hand further down his torso, lightly tracing the hair below his navel to the elastic of his shorts. He felt Voldemort watching him intently, taking in his body, his movements. He tried to think of Ginny, of her red hair and her soft kisses, but he could only see a pair of scarlet eyes staring back at him in the dark.

Harry was determined to imagine that Voldemort was not there, and he could feel Voldemort's amusement at this, at his inability to conjure Ginny's face, her body, in his mind again. Harry was struck by that same longing again, the longing for normality, for a girlfriend and a happy, young, ordinary life.

"_Your mind is still dripping with emotion, Harry_," Voldemort chided him softly. His voice travelled down his body, pulsed through his veins, as much of a part of him as the blood that ran alongside it. "_Your heart is so pliable, so soft. I could squeeze it to a pulp between two of my fingers_."

Harry tossed his head to the side for a moment, but he knew that he could not escape the voice, that attempting to push Voldemort away would only draw him nearer. So Harry chose instead to ignore him, refusing to take the bait, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. He allowed his hand to slip under his trousers, to explore the wiry hair there, feeling his cock grow stiff from the proximity of his fingertips. Harry could feel Voldemort's surprise at this, and Harry found satisfaction in his shock, in his ability to make the Dark Lord react to something.

His fingers slipped lower.

"_Harry, do you really think that you are fighting me?_" Voldemort crooned softly when Harry's fingers found his cock, which stirred readily at the touch of his fingers. "_Do you feel that tugging at your heart, that instinct in your gut that directs your thoughts? Your mind is wet and spongy from sentiment; it's ripe for the picking. You are an emotional overload, Harry. You sicken me_," Voldemort said for the second time that week, but the soft purr in his whisper did not sound disgusted.

Voldemort fell silent after that, and Harry could feel the Dark Lord's

(_hunger desire longing_)

fascination as Harry's fingers continued to slide up and down, squeezing and twisting and heightening the pleasant warmth building at the bottom of his stomach. He could no longer picture Ginny—in fact, it was hard for him to ever think of her when he did this; it made him feel dirty, somehow—but the satisfaction of knowing that Voldemort was there, watching him, feeling him out with his mind, _engrossed,_ made him want to go faster, to go harder, to show Voldemort how good it felt to simply _feel_.

The scarlet eyes seemed to burn brighter in his mind, intensifying his need, his desire to make Voldemort react. And without Harry's permission, a face began to form around Voldemort's red eyes, the face of a younger Tom Riddle, with soft skin and dark hair. He was tall and thin, and his clothes fell away before Harry's gaze. Harry vaguely knew that he was inside Voldemort's mind now, that this boy lived only inside Voldemort's head. But this only served to further Harry's satisfaction, and he was high on the idea that the tables had turned between them now, even though a part of him knew that Tom Riddle was only there because Voldemort was placing him in Harry's mind.

Voldemort's pleasure was a hot, steady flame on his forehead, and Harry felt Voldemort's quiet laughter wash over him, even as his hand began to move faster, bringing him closer, closer.

"_Harry, Harry—don't you see? This connection between us, this familiarity: it will destroy you in the end. Your inability to restrain yourself, your emotions, your desires—it will all kill you, just as surely as I will kill you, too. Do you feel the power that I have over you, Harry? The tangle of passions that governs your thoughts, emotions that are subject to change with just one single seed of malice—I can control it, all of it. You are like putty in the palm of my hand, Harry Potter."_

And Harry felt it, he did, but he couldn't control it, he couldn't reign it in, nor did he even want to; it felt so _good_, and the whisper of Voldemort's voice was like a hot flame, beating through Harry's veins from his own heart, setting every nerve in his body on fire with wanting, with desire. He couldn't remember ever wanting something so bad, and the sultry whisper in his head only served to kindle the fire, to drive his fingers faster and tighter and harder and closer to the edge. Harry realized with a surge of dizziness that his hand was moving with a fury that was not even his own anymore, that it was out of his control, _everything_ was out of his control, but it was too late to worry, because, _oh, _he was so close, he was _almost there_—

(_and the freedom washing over him with the realization that he didn't even care, that he was in way over his head, and that he was okay with this fact)_

—and Voldemort was driving his fingers even harder and harder and, oh, _oh_, he was going to—

"_What a pathetic little boy you are, Harry Potter. I was almost impressed with you, once, with your abilities, your resilience, but look at you, now—you are a slave to your own desires."_

The whisper slid down his body, descending like a wave of heat over his cock, and suddenly Harry was coming violently, hips bucking, chest heaving, the burning in his scar barely noticeable over the rush of pleasure that was crashing over him.

"_Your passion, your love—it will ruin you, Harry," _Voldemort was saying as Harry lay, spent and trembling, in his godfather's childhood bedroom. The pain in his scar had diminished to a twinge now, and he struggled to catch his breath, eyes wide as he stared at the ceiling. "_Do you not see that? Your anger, your emotions, even your precious love. You are only bringing me closer to your heart_."

* * *

><p>The next morning, Harry sat at the kitchen table, feeling well-rested and ready. Hermione and Ron were both clearly nervous: Ron was barely saying anything, his face quite pale, while Hermione was repeating over and over the exact details of the plans they had made to infiltrate the Ministry. But Harry—unexpectedly, Harry felt okay.<p>

The visit that Voldemort had paid Harry the night before had shaken him a little afterward, but Harry was determined not to worry about it. He would not give Voldemort the satisfaction of his anxiety; he would not allow Voldemort's words to get to him. Because that's all that Voldemort had in the end: words. Harry's love, and his anger, and his determination were all solid emotions that grounded him, things that he could cling to when he was in doubt. As much as Voldemort scorned him for it, Harry's emotions spurred him into action; they gave him courage and motivation when he needed it most. But Voldemort's words could not, _would_ not, affect him.

Not to mention, Harry thought darkly, keeping his mind as free as possible of worry and stress would make unwelcome assaults on his thoughts much less likely. If Harry wasn't careful, Voldemort would be attracted to his unhappiness like a moth to a flame, slipping effortlessly into the back of Harry's mind and discovering the mischief that they were planning to create.

Voldemort had not made an appearance in Harry's head since he had visited him the night before, and for this, Harry was grateful.

Harry finished the last spoonful of his porridge, forcibly pushing thoughts of Voldemort and the previous evening from his mind. They had a very important mission to accomplish today, and Harry was sure that if even the slightest thing were to go wrong, that if he allowed his anger to flare up for even just a moment, that Voldemort would sense his distress, would enter his thoughts, and would know exactly what Harry had set out to do.

And then Voldemort would come, and he would find them waiting right in the enemy's den. He would kill them all as he had so often promised Harry in the soft, intimate whisper of his dreams.

Harry swallowed, the first flicker of fear fluttering in his chest. Attempting to infiltrate the Ministry was one thing; trying to keep Voldemort from infiltrating his own thoughts was another entirely.


	5. I:5

Warnings: Eventual slash, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Takes place during DH. Rated M for eventual HP/LV slash.

A/N: This chapter gave me a bit of a hard time. I was trying really hard to balance what happens in this scene in Deathly Hallows (without describing everything in overt detail) with what I needed to happen to move the plot along in this story, and I hope that it's not confusing for anyone who hasn't read the seventh book/seen the seventh movie (or boring for everyone who has). And if you haven't read DH yet, quit reading fanfic and go read some good old J. K. Rowling!

Also, this chapter ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, just to warn you in advance.

Finally, thank you, thank you, thank you for all your wonderful reviews. It means a lot to me to know that people are reading this and enjoying it. And if you have any criticisms/suggestions as well, that is also entirely welcome!

Happy reading!

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><p>5.<p>

The alleyway was dark and dirty.

Harry realized for the first time that he had come to like this alley. Its darkness was a source of comfort for him; along with his invisibility cloak, Harry felt well-protected from the prying gazes of passersby. It had been the perfect stakeout to watch the entrance to the Ministry of Magic, and its darkness and location had kept them safe over the past month.

This morning, however, Harry did not find the sight of the alleyway comforting in the least, but rather, upon Apparating into the alley, his stomach began to churn relentlessly, as if suddenly doused in a bucket of icy water.

The darkness of the alleyway would not follow them inside the Ministry, keeping them hidden from view and from Voldemort. Harry looked around nervously, realizing only now how much he was dreading this foolish attempt to invade the Ministry.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry found himself looking out of the eyes of another body, a tall, burly man whose name they did not know. Hermione was looking nervously around the corner, disguised as tiny little Mafalda Hopkirk, a witch with long, wispy gray hair, and Ron frowned up at Harry from his own disguise as a small, skittish wizard.

"How come you get to be the scary-looking one?" Ron asked, scowling. Harry was indeed quite terrifying; the man whose body he wore sported a long, wiry beard and big, brutish arms.

"Ronald, stop _whining_," Hermione groaned in exasperation, whipping around to glare at him before turning back to Mafalda Hopkirk's purse. Ron shrank back, scowling even worse than before.

"She'll never be able to take a joke, that one," Ron muttered to Harry as Hermione straightened up, holding three golden coins in her hand.

"Here we are," said Hermione crisply, holding out one coin each for both Ron and Harry. "Now let's go, quickly—it's almost nine o'clock already."

The trio set off toward the underground bathrooms, attempting to keep their faces and movements as natural as possible as they merged into the stream of people hurrying to work. Harry's stomach clenched when he saw a picture of himself staring back at him from a "wanted" poster plastered between the two bathroom doors, which were labeled "Gentlemen" and "Ladies" respectively.

Harry nodded imperceptibly at Hermione, and she flashed him a forced, tight-lipped smile before disappearing into the women's loo.

"Hey, Reg," a wizard said to Ron, joining them as they entered the male bathroom. He dropped his voice to a whisper as they entered the line for the bathroom stalls. "As if all these extra security measures haven't been bad enough, you know that they're going to be _really_ strict today." He paused and frowned at the confused look on Ron's face. "Don't you know? Harry Potter was spotted in the street yesterday. The Minister's absolutely furious that he got away."

"Oh, is that so?" Ron stammered, the color draining out of his face. He glanced with wide, horrified eyes at Harry, who did his best to ignore him as he inserted a golden coin into the slot next to a cubicle.

"Are you feeling okay, Reg? You don't look so good," the wizard said, frowning at Ron uncertainly.

"Oh, yes, yes, I'm fine—just a little nauseous, had a bout of food poisoning last night …"

Harry felt Ron's eyes on the back of his head as he stepped into the cubicle. He hadn't told his friends about the incident outside the Ministry the day before; he didn't think they'd have agreed to go today if they'd known what had taken place between him and Voldemort. But Harry wouldn't allow them to put themselves in danger any longer than they needed to be. Every day more that they spent lurking outside of the Ministry was another opportunity for Voldemort to catch them unawares in public. It was now or never.

Harry was tall enough so that he could see the wizards on either side of him climbing on top of their toilets. Forcing himself to swallow, Harry climbed up onto his toilet as well, following suit. The water in the toilet turned out to not be water at all, simply an illusion that disappeared as soon as Harry pulled the chain to flush the toilet. The footing underneath him disappeared as well, and Harry was suddenly falling straight down through a metal shoot, and a moment later, he stumbled out of one of the many fireplaces in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic.

And that's when everything began to go horribly wrong.

It began when Yaxley stepped into the elevator with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. The sight of the Death Eater who had nearly given him away to Voldemort the day before made Harry's mouth turn dry, and he found himself concentrating so hard on controlling his anger that he didn't even notice when Umbridge stepped into the elevator and addressed him.

"_Hem, hem?_"

Harry looked up; Umbridge's cough was infuriatingly familiar to him.

"Albert?" Umbridge was looking at him expectantly, her head cocked to one side, and Harry really needed to struggle to keep his face passive as he stared back at her falsely sweet grin, the sight of which was threatening to make him sick.

"Yes_, Dolores_?" Harry rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly through clenched teeth.

"I asked you if you were getting out; this is your stop, I believe," Umbridge replied, and she gave a false little giggle.

"Ah, yes, of course," Harry said stiffly. Hermione looked at him, eyes widening, and she jerked her head toward the door of the elevator, but Harry found himself unable to move, anger welling dangerously inside of him as he eyed the toad-like woman standing before him. Umbridge's smile flickered for a moment and she stared right back at him, her eyes narrowed.

"You're acting rather strangely today, Albert," Umbridge began, still smiling, but Harry had already exited the elevator, walking quickly and intently in the opposite direction.

_I need to control myself_, Harry thought desperately, striding down the hallway with determination. He heard the elevator doors clang shut behind him, and he slowed down, his heart racing. _I need to control myself, or I'll ruin everything_.

Little did Harry know that the true test of his self-control had not even begun.

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><p>A half hour later, Harry emerged from the open door of Umbridge's office, hidden beneath his invisibility cloak. He had nearly been caught snooping around Umbridge's office by Thicknesse, Voldemort's new puppet and the newly appointed Minister of Magic, when the Death Eater had walked in to leave Umbridge a memo. Harry had barely had enough time to cover himself with the invisibility cloak before Thicknesse had turned around, having been looking over his shoulder when he opened the door, and walked into the room. Harry had even thought for a split second that Thicknesse had glimpsed his hand just before it disappeared beneath the cloak, but if the man had suspected anything, he had not let on, and Harry had been able to sneak safely out of the open door.<p>

The first flutters of panic had begun to coil in the bottom of Harry's stomach as he made his way back to the elevator. He had learned nothing from Umbridge's office that they didn't already know, and he hadn't seen even a hint of the locket that they had come to the Ministry to steal. Harry knew that the longer that they stayed here, the longer they kept themselves in danger, and he was beginning to think that this entire idea had been a gigantic mistake.

Harry stepped onto the elevator and pressed the down button, trying to calm the panic that threatened to consume him. He didn't know where Ron was, and Hermione was stuck in the courtroom with Umbridge, witnessing the prosecution of Muggle-born witches and wizards.

The lift shuddered to a stop on the next floor down, and Ron entered the elevator, looking thoroughly soaked.

"_Ron_," Harry hissed, keeping his voice low even though they were entirely alone. Ron nearly jumped out of his skin, looking wildly around the elevator.

"Who's there?" he cried, and Harry realized that he still was still invisible. This seemed hilarious to Harry, who couldn't keep the smile from his face as he swept the cloak off of his shoulders and stuffed it into his robes, but Ron did not seem all that comforted by the appearance of Harry's disguised body, which towered imposingly over his own.

"Blimey, Harry, it's you! You gave me a scare," Ron said, the color returning to his face a little. "Listen, I can't stop the rain in Yaxley's office, it's really out of hand, I don't know what to do, I tried the charms you and Hermione suggested, but it's not working, and my wife is down in the courtroom right now being tried for—"

"You don't _have _a wife, Ron," Harry interrupted impatiently as the elevator began to move downward. "Listen—I'm going down to the courtrooms to find Hermione and get her out of there. If we don't find anything, I say that we really need to leave, and soon. The Polyjuice potion is going to wear off. Go keep yourself busy, fix the rain in Yaxley's office, and then find us."

"O-okay," Ron stammered as the elevator shuddered to a halt at the Atrium. "They've sent me to find someone else from Magical Maintenance, maybe they'll be able to help … good luck, Harry."

Harry did the best he could to give Ron a smile, even though he felt far from relaxed. The doors clanged shut behind him, and Harry was immensely grateful that no one else had entered the elevator after him.

"Department of Mysteries," announced the cool, female voice, and the doors to the lift shuddered open.

Harry swallowed as he stared down the long, black corridor that had haunted his dreams and his thoughts for so many months. He tried very hard to push from his mind the image of the black door at the end of the corridor, the memories of the veil that had stolen his godfather, before they could do any damage.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Harry took the invisibility cloak out from his robes once again and swept it over his shoulders, stooping over to make sure that it covered his feet in this too-tall body. It took a great deal of determination to step out of the elevator and into the corridor beyond.

It was not the door leading to the Department of Mysteries to which Harry was headed, however, but to the left, where Harry knew that the hall would branch off to the courtrooms.

Harry reached the end of the corridor just in time to hear a door slam open and someone screaming. It did not take him long to find the source of the noise; two dementors swept out of the door, and the darkness and cold that followed them made it difficult for Harry to notice the small man suspended between them, wailing horribly as he went. The Muggle-borns waiting in the hallway shrunk back from the spectacle, their faces horrified.

"Mary Cattermole," Harry heard Umbridge say from within the courtroom, and a hot flicker of anger flashed inside of him at the sound of her voice. A small, pale woman rose from the corner of the corridor, trembling, and slowly made her way to the entrance of the courtroom.

This was his chance. If Harry wanted to get inside and get to Hermione, he would need to go now.

Trying to walk as quietly as possible, Harry crept after the woman, following her through the doorway of the courtroom. When she turned to glance behind her, Harry noticed the poorly disguised terror contorting her face, and he felt his heart go out to the poor woman.

The first thing that Harry noticed was the sheer number of dementors in the room. There had to be dozens of them, lining the perimeter of the courtroom, drawing out whatever sense of hope or happiness Harry had left. Mrs. Cattermole was not faring any better, Harry saw; she seemed to be shaking even more violently as she stumbled to the chair in the center of the room. When she sat down, great chains leapt up from the floor and snaked around her arms, binding her there. Silent tears fell down her cheeks.

"You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?" Umbridge said, and Harry looked up at the sound of her high, girlish voice. A misty silver cat prowled in front of her on the desk, glowing as brightly as Harry had ever seen a Patronus glow; Umbridge was clearly thrilled to be here, interrogating Muggle-borns.

And then Harry saw it, dangling around her fat neck. It was gold, like he remembered the replica, but there was something different, something enchanting about the real thing. It swung from her throat as Umbridge looked down at the papers in front of her, reading questions in her falsely sweet tone of voice, smiling a horrible smile. The light from her Patronus glinted off of the locket.

"I d-d-didn't steal my w-wand from anybody!" Mrs. Cattermole was sobbing now, tears flowing freely down her face. "I've h-had it since I w-was eleven y-y-years old!"

"Don't lie to me, Mrs. Cattermole," Umbridge said, and she giggled girlishly, as if this thought was the most amusing thing to ever cross her mind. "We must not tell lies; hasn't anyone ever taught you that?"

Anger began to bubble in Harry's gut like a dormant volcano. Mrs. Cattermole was sobbing even harder, crying hysterically, the chains digging into her arms while Umbridge continued to berate her—and for what? For having the wrong family? For being born to Muggle parents? For a moment, it seemed as though there was nothing else in the room but Umbridge's laughter, her pointy little teeth, the sobs wracking Mrs. Cattermole's body, the glint of the golden locket hanging around Umbridge's neck.

It came over Harry before he could stop it, inevitable, unstoppable, before he could even realize what was happening; the fury that overcame his senses was like a monster, feeding off of the sound of the poor woman's sobs and Umbridge's horrible laughter and the glint on the locket that should be in _his _hands. And when Harry realized what was happening, what this meant, it was too late.

Voldemort slipped into Harry's mind as effortlessly as a silent breeze. Harry felt Voldemort looking through his eyes, felt him focusing on the locket swinging from Umbridge's throat; he felt Voldemort's brief surge of panic as he realized where Harry was, what he was doing, how close he was to the object that contained a piece of his soul. An anger that wasn't his own came over him, more terrible and violent than he had ever imagined, and pain seared across a scar that was not there, hidden beneath another man's skin.

"_I see you, Harry Potter_."

Someone cried out, and Harry knew that it was not the woman in the chair; she had suddenly fallen silent, although the tears continued to flow down her face. Harry looked for the source of the sound, and noticed Hermione sitting next to Umbridge, and then Yaxley on her other side. Yaxley was clutching his left arm, his face screwed up in pain, and Harry would have been satisfied by the fear on their faces had he not been so afraid himself.

"It's Potter," Yaxley gasped, still clutching at his arm. He did not bother to keep his voice down. Harry watched Hermione tear her eyes away from the locket to look up at Yaxley, her mouth forming a tiny and terrified "o." "It's Potter, he's infiltrated the Ministry, he's here. The Dark Lord is enraged.

"He is coming."

Harry knew all at once what he had to do. Throwing off his cloak, he pointed his wand at Yaxley, ignoring the baffled expression on Mrs. Cattermole's face and the pain in his forehead.

"_Stupefy_!" Harry yelled, and Yaxley slumped off of his chair, falling to the ground with an audible _thump_.

Umbridge let out a little scream, looking about wildly for the source of the curse. Her gaze fell on Harry, and her eyes bulged. "Albert, what is the matter with you, have you lost your _mind-_?"

Umbridge's eyes suddenly rolled back in her head, and she too fell from her seat. Hermione stood behind her, wand shaking as she pointed it at Umbridge's unmoving body.

"Harry, what's _happened_?" Hermione cried, but her voice faltered as the lights dimmed in the room, the temperature dropping—the dementors were gliding out from the shadows along the wall.

_Happiness,_ Harry thought, _I need to think happy_. He lifted his wand, closed his eyes, and murmured the incantation. The silver stag's appearance gave Harry a burst of relief, and he watched it chase the dementors back to the corners of the room, away from the vulnerable witch still bound to the chair.

"Harry," Hermione began again, but Harry interrupted her.

"There's no time." He hurried up the stairs to Hermione's side, and knelt beside Umbridge. Strongly resisting the urge to slap her in the face, he removed the locket from her neck. It sang beneath his fingers, as beautiful as he had imagined it.

"You need to take this," Harry forced himself to say, shoving the locket at her and ignoring her protests. "Voldemort knows, he knows I'm here and that we're after—the locket—"

Harry faltered when his scar lit up again, and he clutched a hand to his forehead, trying to press away the pain. He realized with sudden horror that there was rough skin beneath his fingers, that his scar was coming back. The Polyjuice potion was wearing off.

"We need to hurry," Harry exclaimed, and he ran to the center of the room, Hermione on his heels. Hermione let Mrs. Cattermole (who was now crying hysterically once again) out of the chains binding her to the chair, and helped her stand.

"You need to leave," Harry said to the witch, who was staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "There will be a commotion. You can slip away in the chaos, and leave. Leave the country. Take your kids and don't come back."

Mrs. Cattermole nodded at them, the shock plain on her face, and Hermione grabbed his arm: "Harry, we need to _go_."

"_Harry, Harry, you make this so easy for me,_" Voldemort hissed in Harry's mind as they fled down the corridor, sprinting to the waiting elevator. "_You have delivered yourself and your silly little friends right into the palm of my hand. Do you wish for death? I cannot imagine any other reason you would return so soon to my doorstep; but I digress, Harry. If you stay still, I may forgive you for the headache you caused me yesterday. It can still be painless."_

The elevator rose, unbearably slow. Hermione was staring at him, her terror plain on her face, unanswered questions on the tip of her tongue. Harry was grateful that she did not speak.

The doors shuddered open, and Harry didn't think he had ever been so relieved to see Ron in his entire life.

"Oh, thank _god_," Hermione whispered, and she threw her arms around his neck in a furious embrace. Ron's face, still the face of Reg Cattermole, turned bright pink.

Something relaxed a little in Harry's chest as he looked outside of the elevator. People were still walking, chatting, going about their business. They still had a chance to get away.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked as quickly through the crowd as they could without drawing attention to themselves. Harry felt his robes begin to feel looser around him, and he closed his eyes for a moment, praying for the Polyjuice potion to last just a little longer. He could see the fireplaces now; it was only a little further, and then they would be out of the Ministry and back at Grimmauld Place, leaving this entire nightmare behind them …

"SEAL THE GATES!" someone bellowed behind them. "SEAL THE GATES, THEY'RE GETTING AWAY!"

A murmur of panic rippled through the Atrium, and Harry felt Hermione grasp his hand. Harry glanced behind them and saw Yaxley emerging from the elevator, still clutching his left arm, his face contorted with fury.

They broke into a run now, pushing past confused witches and wizards, flying toward the gates even as Ministry officials began to seal them shut. A number of spells whizzed past his head, and Harry knew that Yaxley did not intend to suffer the Dark Lord's displeasure again.

They were so close—there was still one fireplace open, they could still get away—

Harry, Ron, and Hermione leapt into the last fireplace, and Harry's heart began to sing with relief. They had done it, they were out, they had made it before Voldemort could come. But something was wrong; as the flames in the fireplace turned bright green, another figure launched himself into the fireplace with them: Yaxley. His eyes were bright with fury as he grabbed onto Hermione, who screamed and tried to wrench herself away from him.

And then they were emerging from a toilet, all four of them at once. Harry wracked his mind for what to do, a hex to perform to get Yaxley away from them long enough to Apparate—but his thoughts stopped cold when he looked up.

A pair of threatening blood-red eyes stared back at him.

It occurred to Harry that it might have been comical to see Voldemort in a dingy, Muggle bathroom if he hadn't felt so absolutely petrified.

"Harry, Harry," Voldemort murmured, and he reached forward, wrapped skeletal fingers firmly around Harry's forearm. Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from the Dark Lord's face; he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe.

"I told you to stay _still_."

Voldemort dragged Harry forward forcibly. Hermione was screaming, and he heard Ron swear loudly, but he could not see them; his gaze was transfixed on those scarlet eyes, holding him captive, making him feel naked in the middle of the bathroom.

And then there was the sudden sensation of suffocating, and spinning, and Hermione was still crying behind him, and Voldemort's grip was tightening on his arm.

And then: darkness.


	6. I:6

Warnings: Eventual slash, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Takes place during DH. Rated M for eventual HP/LV slash.

A/N: Once again, thank you so much to everyone who has been reading and reviewing this story! I hope you enjoy reading this next chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

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><p>6.<p>

Darkness. The feel of a rug underneath his cheek, his fingers. The smell of an apple pie, and dust, and sandalwood. The gentle creaking of wooden walls, much like the groan of a house straining against a burst of wind. But most of all, darkness.

"_The darkness cannot hide you from me, Harry_."

The voice slid like smooth silk between his scattered thoughts, and for a moment, Harry wondered if he was alone again in his godfather's bedroom, waking up from a horrible dream. He allowed himself the brief, insane hope that Voldemort wasn't with him, that he had had to resort to communicating inside of Harry's mind instead of speaking to him aloud.

_Words can't hurt me_, Harry reminded himself, and, mustering his courage, he opened his eyes.

The room was impossibly dark and muddy, and it took Harry a few moments to realize that his glasses had flown off of his face when they had Apparated out of the Ministry. Voldemort's presence in his mind—and in the room—weighed almost physically down on him, and Harry found his limbs were heavy and slow as they pushed him to his knees.

Harry had to bunch up his robes around his arms, which were now too small for the clothing he was wearing, before he could begin groping through the darkness searchingly. His fingers brushed against his glasses, laying to his right on the rug. Harry's heart fluttered wildly in his chest as he grasped the fragile frames and placed them on his nose.

The body of a woman stared back at him from barely three feet away, her eyes wide and glassy.

Harry scrambled backward, hardly able to restrain the horrified cry that rose in his throat. His mouth was dry, his mind reeling, and he could not tear his eyes from the sight of her body—who was she? Why was she dead? Abruptly, Harry's hands met a wall behind him, and he realized he could back away no further.

Voldemort's soft chuckle floated from across the room, and Harry lungs constricted with fear, choking him of breath: the chilly sound of Voldemort's laughter had not remained only in his thoughts.

"Your rendezvous in the Ministry interrupted my morning errands, Harry."

If Harry had been clinging to any last thread of hope that Voldemort was present only in his mind, he felt that hope drain out of him now when he looked up toward the sound of the cold, cruel voice. Scarlet eyes stared back at him, penetrating through the darkness, arresting his heart and his thoughts.

Voldemort stepped toward him purposefully, deliberately; it occurred to Harry that his enemy was almost graceful, practically floating across the rug toward where he was sprawled on the floor. Harry noticed distractedly that they were in a dark hallway, and that there were moving photographs on the wall of the woman, still alive, and two little children; this must be her home. He thought of the small children smiling in the photograph, and he felt suddenly sick. Had Voldemort murdered them as well?

"She had to die," Voldemort murmured, his voice like cream, and the sound of his words would have been almost soothing had they come from another's mouth, from another universe. It did not surprise Harry that Voldemort had sensed his thoughts, and he found his lack of surprise unnerving. "You see, she lied to me, Harry. I am not pleased when I am lied to, just like I am not pleased when I am interrupted."

His eyes flashed dangerously, and Harry felt terror bubbling up in his stomach as he noticed how bright the Dark Lord's eyes were in the darkness. Looking up at Voldemort now, at this real, physical, terrifying monster, Harry saw finally that he _was_ afraid, truly afraid. Despite all of his denials, he'd been afraid the whole time, ever since the first night that he had been pulled from his dreams almost a month ago, awoken by Voldemort's honeyed, poisonous words.

"_Are you afraid of me, Harry_?" Voldemort whispered through him, inside him, his voice weaving effortlessly between Harry's own thoughts.

"Yes." The words came from his lips without thought, without permission, and the sound of his voice was hoarse. "Yes, I am afraid."

His confession seemed to lift a weight from his shoulders, and Voldemort's rush of pleasure at the statement heightened the sensation, burning into his scar.

"Oh, yes, _good_, Harry," said Voldemort, pleased, "that is _delightful_." He was directly in front of Harry now, but all Harry could see was the burn of his deep red eyes, stripping his body and mind naked in the darkness.

Voldemort raised a hand into the air, and Harry suddenly felt himself being lifted from the floor; a flick of his index finger, and Harry was thrown against the wall, shoulders slamming against it. His feet floated inches off of the ground, and Harry's body was held there as securely by magic as it would have been had Voldemort pressed him against the wall with his own body. Harry cursed himself for waiting until this very moment to think of escape; now that he was bound to the wall by magic, he was unable to Disapparate from this terrible place and escape from Voldemort.

"You are going to die here, Harry," Voldemort said softly, sensing his fear, his face very close to Harry's own. His eyes were directly in front of Harry's now, and they seemed to be all that he could look at, burning as brightly before him now as they had behind his eyelids the night before.

Harry felt himself flush under the intensity of Voldemort's gaze then, at the brief reminder of the night before, but he refused to look away, staring defiantly back at him. Voldemort's eyes raked over his body, turning his mind inside out. He tilted his head, and a part of Harry noticed how pale and flawless the man's face was, illuminated perfectly and briefly by moonlight, before disappearing back into the darkness once more.

He examined Harry intently.

"_What is this connection between us, Harry Potter_?" Voldemort said without speaking. He lifted his right hand, slowly, and traced one long finger down Harry's jawline.

The boy shuddered violently under the brush of his fingertip, and he shut his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart, but the velvety tones of Voldemort's voice continued to slip through his head. "_How is it that I sense your every thought, your every small triumph and grief, without even looking into your eyes? The muck that passes for your mind is constantly butting up against my own, no matter the distance between us._"

Here, Harry's eyelids fluttered open to meet Voldemort's gaze, which had not faltered since Harry had looked away. Voldemort's hand hung suspended in the air between them, fingers inches away from the scar on Harry's forehead.

"You fascinate me, Harry, in spite of yourself," Voldemort murmured, and he reached forward with both hands now, and, _oh,_ he was sliding his fingers down Harry's face, across his cheeks, his eyelids, his lips, his hair. Harry was trembling, his heart pounding wildly; he was vastly confused by the

(_desire, craving, longing)_

sensations flowing through his body, and yet he surrendered himself to them; his body left him no other choice.

"Harry, Harry; look at you," Voldemort chided softly, his fingers sliding down Harry's neck now. Harry's chin tilted upward of its own volition, allowing his enemy full access to the expanse of his throat. "Don't you see the power that I have over you? You are a puddle of revolting emotion, Harry; you are a creature bound to your most basic of feelings, your primal desires. Don't you see?"

The soft, sliding tones of Voldemort's voice were directly next to his ear, now, somehow even more intimate than when they had travelled through his own mind. Harry felt himself flush with shame as his body began to betray him beneath his trousers, and he tried to turn his head away, squeezing his eyes shut, but a part of him knew that Voldemort did not need to glance downward to see the evidence of Harry's arousal. It was plain in the color of his cheeks, the tilt of his head, the rushing, irrepressible river of his thoughts.

"I should not touch you," Voldemort whispered, but he did not remove his hands. His eyes glowed ever-brighter in the darkness, and Harry could not recognize the emotion behind them.

"I should not, but I cannot seem to get away from you, Harry," he murmured, and Harry's eyelashes fluttered against his burning cheeks again as Voldemort's fingers continued to trace the muscles in his neck, his shoulders, setting aflame with sensation every inch of skin. Harry's breath was coming in short, ragged bursts now, and he felt any semblance of control slipping away from him, like water through his fingers.

"You are permanently present in my mind, Harry; I am drawn to you, like a moth to a candle. You fascinate me," he repeated softly, and the silk of his words seemed to travel down Harry's body like a hot liquid, settling to rest heavily in his groin.

"But I'm getting carried away now, Harry," he continued, his voice low, and something changed in his tone, his touch. His fingers pressed firmly underneath Harry's jawbone, and his eyes narrowed menacingly. "We have something of great import to discuss before I kill you."

Voldemort's fingers tightened around his throat, echoing this statement.

"You have something of mine, Harry," he said softly. Harry felt Voldemort's thoughts crashing into his head, drowning his own, and his next statement existed only his Harry's mind: "_And I would like it back_."

"No," Harry choked out, and his fear returned abruptly, slamming into his lungs again like an icy wave (_but it had never left, had it? It had only slinked into the back of his mind, dormant, waiting to rear its ugly head once more_). "No, I don't have it, I swear—"

"Harry, you cannot lie to me," Voldemort hissed, and he hoisted Harry even higher onto the wall, fingers digging into his throat, eyes flashing with barely-contained rage. "I can read your thoughts like an open book, Harry, surely you must have realized this by now. Do not give me more reason than I already have to be angry with you. _Give me my locket_!"

"I don't have it!" Harry cried hoarsely, and he began to struggle, squirming under Voldemort's grip, which was making it very difficult for him to breathe. A hot flame began to sear across his forehead, reflecting the anger that Harry saw flashing behind Voldemort's eyes. "I don't, I don't, it's not here—"

And suddenly Voldemort's mind was flooding into his own like a boiling ocean of rage, drowning his thoughts and setting his skull on fire. Harry tried to scream, but the sound was muffled in his throat, stoppered by the horrible grip Voldemort had below his jaw. He felt Voldemort pry open his mind, forcibly, angrily, rifling through his memories with a determination bordering on desperation as he searched for any recollection of the locket of Slytherin.

_Oh no,_ Harry thought, _oh shit oh shit oh no_. He knew that Voldemort could not find out that Hermione had the locket—he didn't even know where Hermione had gone, or if they had escaped safely from Yaxley. But if Voldemort learned that Hermione was holding a piece of his soul, Harry knew that Voldemort would stop at nothing to find her and kill her, and Harry would not be there now to warn her, to save her.

Struggling, fighting to scream, Harry instinctively did the only thing that had ever succeeded for him during his Occlumency lessons with Snape: he pushed back, _hard_.

Without warning, Harry's mind was suddenly flooded with images from Voldemort's past: the dead woman, sobbing hysterically, insisting that Gregorovitch was no longer living here; Lucius Malfoy's face, terrified, in the graveyard three years ago; a woman with bright red hair, screaming and crumpling to the ground; a lonely little boy, crying as Muggle children pelted him with clods of dirt and rocks; another Muggle, an adult, roaring at the same little boy, brandishing a leather belt—

"_NO!"_

The panicked yell had not come from his mouth, but from Voldemort's, and Harry felt himself shoved away from the cascade of Voldemort's memories as forcibly as he had been shoved up against the wall a few minutes prior. Harry's scar was searing with pain, and he collapsed to the floor as Voldemort stumbled backward, staring at Harry with disbelief,

(_and was that fear in the Dark Lord's face, lighting up those red eyes with something other than disdain, anger?_)

and he stared, his face a mix of horror and rage, eyes transfixed on Harry's face as though he had never seen him before.

Harry gulped oxygen into his lungs hungrily, exceedingly grateful that Voldemort's fingers had vanished from his throat. He could feel Voldemort's shock and confusion from the other side of the room, and Harry pulled himself to his feet hurriedly, nearly tripping over pants many sizes too large from him, not wanting to be left with his guard down while Voldemort stood angry and confused across the hallway.

_Wait a minute,_ Harry thought_. Across the hallway …_

It took one second for Harry to realize what he needed to do, and another to decide to do it, knowing that if he hesitated any longer, Voldemort would bind him to the wall once more—or, worse (_or better? Harry couldn't decide_), begin touching his face in that strange way again.

Taking one last look at Voldemort (and he would have felt satisfied by the look on his face, his terror, had he not nearly just been suffocated to death), Harry closed his eyes, concentrated hard, and vanished into thin air.

* * *

><p>Grimmauld Place materialized before Harry's eyes like a dream. Never had he been happier to see the dim, dusty hall, the busts of long-dead house elves lining the wall. He sighed, massaged his throat, looked around.<p>

Something was wrong.

It took Harry a moment to realize what it was, but it came to him when his eyes fell upon the dust coating the stairway's bannister: no horrible impersonation of Albus Dumbledore had risen from the dust on the floor, sweeping toward him as it had every time Harry had entered the house.

Why on earth would Ron and Hermione have gotten rid of that—and how did they manage to do it?

"_Master!_"

The tiny squeak came from down the hall, and Kreacher came scuttling out of the drawing room, his big, tennis ball eyes wide and afraid. "Master must leave, he must leave straight away—"

"Kreacher, where are Ron and Hermione?" Harry asked, a lump forming in his throat. "Did they come back?"

Kreacher's eyes grew even wider, if that was possible; they seemed already to be nearly bulging out of their sockets. "Yes, Master, young Master's friends did come back, but only for a moment," Kreacher replied, his voice quavering. "They left again right away, the red-haired one looked hurt—" and here, Kreacher gulped audibly, muttering, "Master won't be pleased with this, no, not at all—Kreacher saw that they had brought another with them."

Harry's mouth dropped open. Yaxley. Yaxley had followed them to Grimmauld Place, the Fidelius Charm was no longer sacred, which meant …

"Strangers, Master, every day, prowling around Master's house," Kreacher croaked, confirming his fears, and Harry's hand shot immediately to his wand in his pocket, panic flickering in his chest. "Master must _leave_, he must leave straight away—"

"But Kreacher," Harry interrupted, "where did they go? Ron and Hermione? Do you have any idea?"

Kreacher's ears perked up at this, and he gave Harry a tentative smile. "Kreacher will do everything he can to help young Master Harry—quick, grab onto Kreacher's arm, we must _hurry_—"

And sure enough, Harry heard voices rising from upstairs, and movement from the floor directly above them. He did not want to stick around to find out who it was. Preparing himself for the unpleasant experience of Apparation the fourth time that day, Harry took firm hold of Kreacher's arm, closed his eyes, and felt the world fall away, spinning violently around him.

And then, suddenly:

"_I will find you, Harry Potter; there is no where that you can go where your mind will be safe from me!" _

The voice was a scream of rage, swelling against the walls of his skull, a burning hot iron on the back of his forehead. As darkness descended like a wave over the hallway, Harry's head split open, exploding with pain so intense that it was dizzying. He heard himself crying out before his lungs were choked of breath as they travelled through space.

He was sure that this must be what death felt like, that there was no pain worse than this, no wrath more extreme and terrible than that of Lord Voldemort's.

The last thing Harry remembered before darkness consumed him was a pair of softened red eyes, and a little boy being pelted with stones on a playground.


	7. II:1

Warnings: Eventual slash, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Takes place during DH. Rated M for eventual HP/LV slash.

A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you again to all my wonderful readers! Feel free to review/criticize/etc. at the end of this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

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><p>PART II: THE RACE<p>

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><p>1.<p>

_I am coming for you, Harry_.

The voice drove Harry's heart to beat harder, his feet to pound faster against the pavement, and he was running, running, running through the dark.

He heard his mother, screaming; a blinding flash of green light; red eyes, shining in a nursery.

He was flying through the darkness, down an endless bridge. The night air was cold against his face, drenched in sweat. He was afraid.

Those same red eyes in a dark hallway reeking of death, burning through his thoughts like a knife. Fingers against his skin, burning through his flesh like a poison.

Running, running, running through the dark, running from these thoughts, these feelings. Running from Voldemort.

"You will not escape me, Harry," the voice whispered from somewhere behind him, and it carried on the cold breeze until it brushed against his ear, as if his hunter were speaking from directly behind him. "Must you make this so difficult for yourself? We both know you will give in to me, in the end."

"_Never_," Harry promised between great gasping breaths. "Never. You'll have to kill me."

And he kept running, away from the sound of Voldemort's laughter, pursuing him like a physical entity, a manifestation of the amusement that Harry sensed pounding in his forehead.

He didn't know where he was going, just that it was _away_. That he needed to keep going, keep running, to find the end of the bridge, but he was no longer sure that an end existed.

_There has to_, Harry thought, and he focused on the sound of his feet slapping the pavement, his harsh, broken breathing. _There has to be an end_.

"Kill you? Very clever, Harry," Voldemort replied, silk against Harry's ear, laughter still creeping into his voice. "I intend to do just that."

_Not if I can help it_. The thought drove his feet faster, harder against the ground. His knees were aching.

"Oh, Harry," Voldemort sighed, and Harry could not tell if the voice was coming from behind him, or in front of him, or inside him. "When will you see that you cannot escape me? I created you, Harry. You are what you are because of me. Everything about you, every single atom of your being, it is all because of my existence, my influence. Every cell in your body belongs to me."

Harry's eyes were watering, streaming with tears of exhaustion, but he could not see an end, could not see the road. There was only darkness, and Voldemort.

_No_, Harry thought, and he kept running. _No, you're wrong_. _I'm not you, I'm not like you, I'm nothing like you_.

Running, running, running—his whole life stretched before him on this bridge to no where, forever running.

The air left his lungs suddenly, and he felt Voldemort's presence very near to him now. Harry stumbled to a halt, looking wildly around him, not wanting to be caught unprepared, but he could only see the night. And when he turned around again, Voldemort had appeared as if having spawned from the darkness itself, powerful and tall and pale and perfection.

"_Look at me, Harry Potter!" _Voldemort hissed, and his fingers came up to grasp Harry's chin, forcing him to stare up into blazing red eyes. "Look into my face. You are staring at your own reflection. We are not so different as I once believed."

And then Harry's eyes screwed up in pain as Voldemort _pushed_, and his enemy was ripping through his mind again, into his thoughts and memories, digging deeper and deeper with greedy, razor-sharp claws.

An image of Dudley Dursley was pulled unwillingly to the front of his mind, a baseball bat in his pudgy fingers. Piers Polkins, Dudley's best friend, was holding Harry's arms behind his back, pinning him as he squirmed and shouted, and Dudley's lips were curled into a smile as he ordered, 'Hold him good and still, Piers … let's see if candy will come out if we hit him hard enough.'

The young Harry in his memory cried out as he was struck across the shoulder by the baseball bat, and Harry heard himself yelling in Voldemort's grasp, pain exploding in his arm as if he had been struck again. The image dissolved in his mind, and Harry found himself looking back into Voldemort's face, a satisfied smirk dancing on his thin lips.

"What would you give, Harry, to hold your fat, Muggle cousin and cause him the same pain that he caused you as a child?" Voldemort's question was quiet, and if Harry hadn't processed the words, he might have thought the sound of Voldemort's voice enticing.

"I don't understand," Harry spat back, his shoulder still throbbing, his head pounding. He tried to wrench his face out of Voldemort's hand, but his fingers were too strong, holding Harry's gaze steadily to his own.

"I can feel your hatred, Harry," Voldemort said softly, and his grip on Harry's chin relaxed slightly. "You cannot lie to me; your thoughts and mine both flow into the same ocean. We are one and the same, you and I, Harry; but if you can never learn to direct your hatred, your anger, your _feelings_—" and with this, his fingers slipped up Harry's jaw in what was almost a caress, eliciting a shiver from the boy—"you will be ruined."

Voldemort's fingers travelled up the side of Harry's face, and he resisted the urge to lean into the touch. It was horrifying, the magnetic energy that existed between their bodies when Voldemort touched him like this. Was it truly because they were the same? Was it the connection that Dumbledore had spoken of that which threaded their thoughts together, that made Harry's skin call out to Voldemort's fingers—because the same person was hidden underneath?

The man's fingers wound into his hair, and Harry shut his eyes, unexpected pleasure washing over him at the touch of fingertips smoothing across his scalp; but he at least kept his head steady, under control.

_Control_. Harry really did need to learn how to get ahold of himself; it wouldn't do for his nemesis to diminish him to a puddle of soup every time they met by the simple touch of his fingers.

"_Harry!_" The voice was distant, far away. It seemed to be coming from over the side of the bridge, from the darkness that Harry suddenly found quite frightening.

The fingers tightened in his hair suddenly, and his eyes flew open as Voldemort yanked on his head, forcing him painfully to look back into his face. Any trace of tenderness that had been evident in Voldemort's touch had vanished.

"Do not forget, Harry," Voldemort said, his voice soft and deadly, "I am with you, always. You cannot hide from your own thoughts."

"_Harry, can you hear me?"_

The bridge began to sway suddenly under his feet, shaking as though struck by an earthquake. Harry nearly lost his footing, sliding sideways, and he whirled his arms out, trying to grasp hold of anything solid, but Voldemort had remained firmly on the ground, many feet away from him, now, unyielding to the swaying of the bridge.

Pieces of the iron began to rain from the sky like bullets, and the ground was shaking even more violently underneath him. There was a loud groan, and Harry saw with horror that the bridge had split into two only a few yards away from him. Panicking, Harry felt himself fall to the pavement, sliding toward the gap in the bridge.

"Don't do anything you will regret, Harry," Voldemort's voice floated to him over the noise, the groaning of iron, the shaking of the ground. "Remember: _I will know_."

* * *

><p>Harry opened his eyes, and found not a crumbling bridge but the bright light of the sun shining through leaves. The grinding of the earth been replaced by the gentle chirping of birds, and Harry saw not scarlet eyes but brown ones staring back at him in deep concern.<p>

"Oh, _Harry, _thank god!" Hermione cried, and then Harry found himself suffocating in a lot of bushy hair as Hermione threw herself on top of him. "I was so worried about you, Harry! It was all such a total disaster, and Yaxley almost caught us, and then … You-Know-Who .. but how did you get away?"

She sat up, breathless, her eyes wide and shining as she stared expectantly down at him.

"I … I'm not really sure," Harry said, and swallowed, sitting up as well. He seriously hoped it wasn't obvious that he was thinking about Voldemort's fingers dancing across his jawline, bringing a deep flush to his cheeks in the darkness of the hallway … "Well, I mean, I Apparated … but I'm not sure how I managed to get away, it was a really close call …"

He paused, and ran a hand over his face, which was still sweaty.

"Where are we? Is Kreacher here? And where's Ron?"

Hermione's face paled slightly at the last question, and Harry felt his stomach plummet, suddenly more afraid than he had been in all the encounters he'd had with Voldemort thus far.

"Hermione?" Harry asked, and his voice was little more than a whisper. "Where's Ron?"

An answering groan came from somewhere behind him, and Harry scrambled to his feet, ignoring the protesting shot of pain that split through his forehead. There on the forest floor lay his best friend, his face gray and his entire left side caked in blood.

"What happened to him?" Harry gasped, and he fell to his knees beside Ron, looking for the source of the blood, but he could not find a single open wound on his body.

"He got … Sp-Splinched," Hermione stammered, her voice shaking as she knelt beside Harry on the ground. "When we Disapparated from Grimmauld Place—after you disappeared with … with Voldemort," and she swallowed after saying the name, as if it were something dirty in her mouth, "I knew we wouldn't be any help to you caught in the Ministry, so I grabbed Ron and we tried to go back to Grimmauld Place, but Yaxley, he grabbed hold of my arm and rode all the way back with us, right inside the Fidelius Charm's protection."

She paused here, to take a deep breath, and Harry saw tears glistening in her eyes as she continued. "Harry, I'm so sorry, but I don't think we can go back there now. I used a Revulsion Jinx to get him to let go of me, but he had already seen, and I'm sure the place is swarming with Death Eaters by now …"

"I'm pretty sure it was," Harry interjected, and he looked down at Ron, his headache getting worse by the minute. "That's where I Apparated just now, and thankfully Kreacher saw me before anyone else did, he told me he could bring me to you, just a few seconds ago, and now I'm here. What?" he added, for Hermione was looking at him strangely now.

"Harry, you've been passed out for almost an hour," Hermione said gently. "Kreacher brought you here-gave me a real scare, actually, before I realized who it was-and he said that you fainted when you Disapparated. He had to go back to Grimmauld Place right away, he didn't want the Death Eaters to get suspicious."

Harry stared at her, disbelieving. "An _hour_?" said Harry. "That can't be right, I was just with Kreacher five minutes ago!"

"It sounded like you were having a really awful dream, Harry," Hermione continued, her voice kind. "You were going on about running away, and that you were different from … well …" she faltered here, and Harry closed his eyes, the details of the horrible dream coming back to him now.

For a moment, Harry wanted to tell her everything: that he had been hearing Voldemort's voice even since he had begun trying to block it out, that Voldemort had visited him in his godfather's bedroom, that he had touched Harry's face and called him fascinating. That he made Harry feel things that he had never felt for Ginny, or any other girl for that matter.

But when he opened his eyes and saw the look on Hermione's face

(_fear, plain and simple—she's afraid of you, Harry_)

he knew that she would never be able to understand.

"I don't remember," Harry said flatly, and he turned back to Ron, who was lying still on the ground. "Is he going to be okay?"

Hermione could tell that he was lying, and her disappointment was plain on her face, but she did not press the issue, for which Harry was rather grateful.

"Well, he fainted when we got here; it was awful, really, there was blood everywhere," she said quietly. "I brought a bottle of Dittany in my bag for exactly this sort of situation, but my hands were shaking everywhere, I was so afraid, Harry—you were gone, and Ron was …" she faltered again, and Harry was sure that she was going to start crying any second now. "I had a lot of trouble opening the bottle. But I was finally able to get a few drops on him, and it healed the wounds up alright—at least he's stopped bleeding."

Ron moaned again from the ground, and Hermione reached out a hand to feel his forehead, which was still pale and clammy. "He lost a lot of blood," she went on, and Harry could see that it was an effort for her to keep her voice from shaking. "He hasn't woken up yet …"

Harry looked at Ron, who had nearly bled to death in the past hour, and then at Hermione, on the brink of tears, having nearly been caught by a Death Eater not even an hour ago. The memory of Voldemort's voice drifted through his head, the photograph of Ginny in his fingers: _She'll have to die too, you know; they all will, all for their brave little hero who will allow so many to die in his place_.

Harry's heart twisted in his chest, and he looked back up at Hermione, trying to force himself to think rationally. "Where are we?" he asked, his mind reeling.

"In the woods where they held the Quidditch World Cup," she responded, seizing the change of conversation gratefully. "It was the first place I thought of. I've already cast a great number of protective charms around the area, we will definitely know if they're coming at the worst, and at the best they won't even know that we're here."

Harry felt a sudden surge of gratitude for Hermione, who had always paid attention during Charms and did her homework to the last inch of parchment.

"Meanwhile," Hermione was saying, "I set up a tent—Mr. Weasley said we could borrow it, it's from his friend at the Ministry—and now that you're here, maybe we could move Ron inside so he can lay down on the bed."

"Right, of course," Harry said, and together, they carefully carried Ron into the tent. It was exactly as it had been at the Quidditch World Cup, and Harry was surprised how vividly he remembered where everything was: the kitchen, the bathroom, the small living area. That summer seemed like it had been ages ago now, another lifetime.

Hermione was sitting beside Ron, whom they had lain on the bunk bed, stroking his hair tenderly. Harry felt like he was invading an intimate moment between them, but he had suddenly been reminded of something very important.

"Hermione, you still have the Horcrux, right?" he asked. Hermione looked up, startled, and removed her hand quickly from Ron's forehead.

"Oh—oh, right, of course," she said, and reached into her robes.

The world seemed to slow down as she pulled it out of her pocket. There it was, just a foot away from him, right within reach of his fingers. It shone a brilliant gold in the light seeping through the tent's roof, with small, green jewels making up the letter "S" in the middle. His heart skipped a beat, and he could feel a longing that was not his own make him reach out his fingers and brush the locket.

Instead of taking it, however, Harry pushed it away from him, back toward Hermione, who looked surprise. "You keep it for now, Hermione," said Harry, swallowing, as he tried to still the small part of him that was screaming for him to grab it from her. "I don't know if it's safe for me to have it … with Voldemort in my thoughts and whatnot."

Ron seemed to stir in his sleep at the name, and he gave another loan moan. Hermione immediately hovered back over him, eyes wide. Ron opened his eyes slowly, and Harry saw that they were bloodshot.

"Where _are_ we?" he croaked, his voice hoarse. He moved his right hand to feel the healed wound on his arm and winced.

"I'm going to go outside for a little," Harry said as he saw that same tenderness return to Hermione's face. Neither of them tried to stop him as he exited the tent.

Outside, the air was chilly and fresh. Harry realized as he walked away that his shoulder was still throbbing from his dream within a dream, and when he touched his arm, he found that it was sore to the touch.

Harry sat down a little ways away from the tent, making sure not to wander too far so that he wouldn't leave the magical boundaries Hermione had set up. He had too many thoughts flying through his head, and he just wanted to get away from it all.

_Escape_.

For example, it had occurred to Harry, watching Hermione touch Ron's face, that Voldemort had touched him with the same tenderness only an hour ago. His worst enemy, his murderer, had told Harry that he was fascinating, that they were one and the same. Hell, he had even provoked a physical reaction from Harry—and Harry hadn't done anything, hadn't protested, hadn't pushed him away. He had stood there and let him and _felt_.

_If you can never learn to direct your feelings, you will be ruined, _Harry heard Voldemort say in his dream, fingers massaging Harry's scalp as his voice washed over him like cream.

Direct his feelings toward what? Toward hate? Toward genocide? The brief memory of Harry's cousin sprang into his mind again, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force it out of his thoughts. Frankly, he was scared by the hatred he felt for his mother's family. Dudley was the exception, not the norm; not all Muggles were horrible like the Dursleys.

But what scared Harry the most was that he had seen his cousin in the children pelting Tom Riddle with rocks, his uncle in the Muggle brandishing a leather belt at the orphan.

What scared Harry the most was that, for just a moment, he had understood what had transformed the young and handsome Tom Riddle into the powerful monster that Lord Voldemort was today.


	8. II:2

Warnings: Eventual slash, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Takes place during DH. Rated M for eventual HP/LV slash.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been reading this story! I've really been enjoying writing it, and we're going to finally get some slash in the next chapter to all those who have been asking. I hope you like this next one! Please feel free to leave a review to brighten my day—and constructive criticism is always welcome as well!

* * *

><p>2.<p>

The next several weeks passed quietly and with little progress. They stayed somewhere different every day, finding secluded areas on the countryside to set up camp by day and brainstorming for locations of other Horcruxes by night. Ron had been wearing a sling to cradle his injured arm, and between his lack of usefulness without his wand hand and the irritability of wearing the Horcrux around his neck, he had become very argumentative and generally unpleasant to be around.

After the first day when Harry had felt the strange attraction to the locket, they had decided that it would be best for Harry not to have any interaction with it. But Harry also did not think it was a good idea to leave the Horcrux lying around in the tent, so Ron and Hermione took turns wearing it, switching every twelve hours to share the burden of the cursed object so that there would be no chance of losing it. They each grew to dread wearing the locket, and Harry felt very guilty whenever he caught the glances of remorse on their faces as they traded the locket off to each other, knowing that the next twelve hours would be even more frustrating and frightening than was necessary for each of them in turn.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron had each taken turns sending explosive curses and hexes at the locket the day after the fiasco in the Ministry, but no matter how powerful a curse they threw at the damn thing, when the smoke cleared and the blinding flashes receded, the locket still sat on the ground, looking exactly the same as it had when they had raised their wands a moment ago.

So instead, they spent most of their time trying to figure out what to do next.

Dumbledore had told Harry that Voldemort would hide Horcruxes in places that were important to him. But despite their many wasted nights of going over and over what they knew of Voldemort's life, they made very little progress in figuring out where Voldemort might hide the pieces of his soul.

They had even tried to visit the Muggle orphanage in which Tom Riddle had spent his childhood, if only for the sake of doing something, anything, to stop Ron from complaining about how nonexistent their progress was. Harry had known all along that Voldemort would not have hidden a Horcrux here—this place was not an important home to him, but a prison, and he found it hard to believe that Tom Riddle would have trapped a piece of his soul in the place he had so desired to escape as a child.

But when they arrived in London, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, they only found a complex of office buildings in the orphanage's place; it had been demolished many years ago.

Later that afternoon, the three friends set up camp in the Forest of Dean, where Hermione said she'd been camping with her parents as a child. Ron was rather interested to hear about the experience of Muggle camping—"they actually sleep on the _ground? _Why don't they just bring their beds?"—until it had to be his turn to wear the Horcrux. Ron promptly stopped talking after she hung it around his neck, and he glowered in the corner of the tent the rest of the afternoon.

As the sun began to set and they had no luck finding food, Hermione began attempting another meal of edible fungi, something that was bound to put Ron in an even worse mood. Ron had already snapped at Harry that evening when he had returned to the tent empty-handed—"No dinner is all well and good for you, you don't have this bloody thing hanging around your neck when the other half of it is out trying to murder your family"—and Harry had been stung by his words, retreating to the opposite corner of the tent where he could sit as far away from Ron as possible. He felt more and more guilty every day that he was not taking turns like his friends bearing the burden of Voldemort's soul, and even guiltier that they had not yet found anything to halt Voldemort on his murderous rampage.

_But you do bear the burden of his soul_, a part of him whispered. _You hear _him_ in your head every night, what could be worse than that? _But Harry chased that thought out of his head before it could go any further; he had found that, lately, as soon as he began feeling anxious about Voldemort, the man would swoop into his thoughts as if by a Summoning charm, paranoid that Harry was up to something dangerous again.

It seemed to be too late, however. Harry felt his scar begin to prickle like clockwork, and he shut his eyes tight, trying to block Voldemort out. But it soon became apparent that this visit was not a voluntary one. An image of a smiling young man rose before Harry's eyes, and anger began to simmer in his gut as the face became clearer.

Despite Voldemort's rage churning in his stomach and the pain prickling in the scar, Harry felt himself relax: Voldemort had not come to intrude upon his thoughts after all.

Harry had been seeing the face of this man more and more often, both waking and dreaming. He had collected enough snippets of Voldemort's memories to know that he had stolen something from Gregorovitch, the man Voldemort had been looking for when he'd killed that poor woman, and that Voldemort was absolutely livid about it. The young man's smiling face haunted Harry's thoughts almost every day now, and Voldemort's hatred for this man confused Harry greatly.

What could this person have stolen that was so important? What else could Voldemort possibly want now that he had the entire wizarding world at his feet?

His forehead gave another sharp stab, and Harry hissed in pain, clapping his hand to his scar. In a flash, Ron had flown across the room to kneel beside him, eyes wide not with concern for Harry, but for his sister and brothers and parents.

"What is it, Harry?" Ron asked, and he touched Harry's arm. _As if you care_. "What did you see?"

"Just the thief," Harry said, grimacing, and he rubbed at his scar as the pain receded. "He's always thinking about him now."

"Oh," said Ron sourly, and he began to turn away from Harry, rising to get up. "I wish you would see something _useful_ once in a while …"

These words brought Harry a fresh surge of anger, and he stood up, scowling. "What, do you think that Voldemort is just singing the god damn ABC's in my head all the livelong day?"

"_Don't say his—"_

"I _will _say his name, I don't care what you think, he's constantly in my head, Ron!" Harry snapped, his voice rising loudly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione shrink back by the cauldron, watching them. "He's always there, Ron. Almost every day, I see someone else get murdered, right through my own eyes, like I'm the one doing it. And then every day, he comes back to remind me that he's going to do the same god damn thing to me and everyone that I love!"

"And what about me?" Ron yelled, kicking over a stool. "What about the people that _I_ love? Am I not allowed to care about them, too? They're _my _family, you know—"

"I care _just_ as much about them as you do!" Harry roared back. "Do you think you could handle hearing Voldemort"—and he ignored Ron's yelp at the name, his voice rising as he pressed on—"_Voldemort_ sitting in your head all day, talking about all the ways he's going to torture your family? Holy hell, between him and you whining about everything you can possibly find to complain about, I can't get a minute's peace!"

"Quiet, both of you!" Hermione suddenly shrieked, running over to try to get herself between them, and they were both temporarily shocked into silence. "You need to be quiet, right now!"

"Hermione," Ron began, his face very red, but she cut him off.

"I hear something moving outside!" she whispered loudly, and they both fell quiet at that. The tension in the air transformed from one of fury to fear in the space of those five words.

"Moving?" Harry hissed, and he saw that all the red had drained from Ron's face. "But didn't you cast the charms?"

"Of course I did, I cast everything, but you two were having the world's greatest yelling match in here, it might have broken," she responded nastily, her voice hushed. They fell silent for a few moments, listening, and sure enough, the sound of feet snapping twigs and autumn leaves was clear from outside the tent.

"Here, we can get some fish from the river here," said a male voice. "_Accio fish_."

There was some more silence, in which Harry was certain that the beating of his heart was so loud that it would give them away.

A few more moments, and the light of a fire glowed against the canvas of their tent, and the distinct smell of cooking fish was heavy in the air. Harry was reminded stupidly of his inability to find anything other than fungus out in the forest that day, and his anger with Ron flared up again unreasonably.

There were more voices now, speaking in a low, garbled foreign language, and Hermione's eyes widened in understanding. She touched Harry's arm and whispered, "Goblins."

And then, an unmistakably human voice floated to them from the river—and Harry thought that it sounded very familiar, although he couldn't quite place who it was: "So why are you two on the run? I thought that the goblins had taken You-Know-Who's side in the war."

"This is a wizards' war," responded one of the goblins curtly in English, "and these wizards do not give our race the respect we deserve. Gringotts is no longer in our control."

"So then why did you run?" the human pressed, and suddenly Harry knew exactly who it was: Dean Thomas, a Gryffindor that had been in their year at Hogwarts. He looked at Ron and Hermione, and saw that they had recognized his voice as well, grins stretching their faces.

"Goblins do not respond to human orders," said one of the goblins. "Humans think that we are inferior to them. But there are many things that goblins know that humans do not."

The two goblins snickered.

"What do you mean?" Dean's voice said uncertainly.

"I mean that goblins can deceive humans, especially when we play on our own grounds," said the other goblin, and they began laughing again. There was a pause, and Harry was afraid that they would not elaborate, but a few moments later, the goblin continued, "And especially when it comes to goblin-made objects … like the sword of Gryffindor."

"The sword of Gryffindor?" Dean pressed, and Harry's heart might have stopped beating for a moment. Dumbledore had left the sword of Gryffindor to Harry in his will, but the Minister had informed Harry that it was not Dumbledore's to give away. "Griphook, I read in the _Prophet_ that a bunch of my friends from school tried to break into Snape's office and steal the sword of Gryffindor. Did you hear about that?"

"Ah, yes, and punished quite harshly when they were caught," said the golbin called Griphook. "But it is no matter; the sword is safe now."

"Of course it is. Snape sent it right down to Gringotts, didn't he?" replied Dean, and then the goblins began cackling again. "What are you laughing about? I don't understand!"

"The sword that was in Hogwarts was a fake!" said the other goblin, laughing still harder. "An excellent fake, but I knew that it was not authentic from the moment that they brought it into the bank." And then he was overtaken by fits of laughter.

"Goblin-made weapons have very specific qualities to them with which only our great race is familiar," Griphook said, picking up where his friend had left off and stifling his own laughter. "The Dark Lord's followers have no idea that the sword in Gringotts is a fake. I do not know where the real one is, but I am certainly not about to offer help to these humans who have taken over Gringotts. If they are so superior, then they can figure it out themselves."

"I see," said Dean uncomfortably. He seemed very eager to change the subject. "Look, the fish is ready. Let's eat." And a comfortable silence fell outside the tent as the refugees ate their dinner.

Harry and Hermione were throwing frantic glances at each other, hardly able to contain their excitement, their ears pressed against the canvas of the tent. The sword of Gryffindor wasn't in the possession of Snape, or of any Death Eaters at all for that matter! And Dumbledore had tried to leave the sword to Harry in his will; he must have been trying to tell Harry something, that it would be useful to him somehow …

And then it dawned on him. In his second year, he had used the sword of Gryffindor to first kill the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, and then he had used it to destroy Tom Riddle's diary. The sword had been able to destroy a Horcrux!

Harry was hardly able to keep his excitement from bursting out of him, all thoughts of his argument with Ron forgotten as they waited for the goblins and Dean to finish eating their dinner and move on. When the light of the fire had died down and they had disappeared into the forest, Harry was practically overflowing with all of this new information.

Hermione and Harry both began talking at once.

"Hermione, the sword of Gryffindor! It all makes sense now—"

"—of course, it's made of _goblin_ steel, it retained the basilisk's venom—"

"—and it destroyed Tom Riddle's diary, a Horcrux, in the Chamber of Secrets—"

"And where exactly do you reckon the thing is now, eh?"

Harry and Hermione stopped talking at once at the sound of Ron's voice. He had moved to the opposite corner of the tent after Dean and the goblins had left, and he sat there now, glowering at them with an awful expression on his face.

"Well, we hadn't really gotten that far yet," Hermione said, looking hurt.

"We haven't really gotten bloody anywhere at all, now, have we!" Ron exclaimed, and he stood up, fists clenched in anger. Hermione's face fell, and Harry could see tears glistening in her eyes.

"Ron, we're doing the best that we—"

"But _our_ _best_ hasn't been good enough, Hermione," Ron said, and he rounded suddenly on Harry, face screwed up in rage. "This is all your fault! You dragged us off onto this stupid, useless quest for Horcruxes, and now we've found out that we can't even destroy them ourselves, that we have to go find another bloody thing before we can even get anywhere—if we can even find out where it is, of course, because the effing goblins have probably got it _locked up_ somewhere—"

"_My _fault?" Harry exclaimed, outraged. "I'm only doing what Dumbledore told me to do, I told you that you didn't have to come—"

"Yeah, but I thought that we'd actually be _doing_ something," Ron snapped back nastily, "not going on the world's longest bloody camping trip. I thought we'd be fighting, rallying support, getting an army together—we look like a bunch of great cowards sitting out here in the woods, eating _fungus_—"

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed, and there were real tears in her eyes now, but he ignored her, his gaze fixed only on Harry.

"So why are you still here, then?" Harry spat, and something happened then, some sort of horrible gravity was falling in the tent, making it hard to breathe and harder to speak. A wall had gone up between them.

Ron stared back at him, spluttering.

"I don't know!" he said finally. "I don't bloody well know. I'm sick of this. Maybe you enjoy being a coward camping out in the woods all day, but I want to actually _do _something! I have a family that I need to protect! I'm not happy to just let everyone go around and do the fighting for me, for all these people to _die_ so I can just go on this useless camping trip—"

"So go then!" The words had tumbled out of Harry's mouth before he could stop them, and he found that he did not regret them, glaring back at the hatred he saw in Ron's eyes. "Run on home to Mummy, I'm sure she'll have a nice big chicken pot pie waiting for you on the table."

"_Fine_!" Ron shouted. And it was final, and Hermione was really crying now, silent tears spilling down her cheeks. Ron wrenched the Horcrux off of his neck, throwing it on the ground. "Fine, then. Come on, Hermione."

He made to exit the tent, and had gotten so far as to push the flap out of the way before he realized that Hermione was not behind him. He turned around, understanding dawning in his eyes, and he looked from Hermione to Harry back to Hermione again.

"Ron," said Hermione, quietly, pleadingly. "Ron, I can't, _we _can't, we promised we would do this—"

"I see how it is," said Ron, lips curling in disgust. "You're with _him_ then, is that it? I see how it is," he repeated, and before anyone could stop him, he had vanished into the night.

Harry sat dumbstruck in the tent. Hermione had ran outside, crying and calling after him, but Harry knew that Ron would not return. He was not surprised when Hermione walked back into the tent alone, his face splotchy with tears.

"Hermione, I'm sorry," Harry said, but she had already crumpled onto her bed, sobs wracking her body. He walked over to her tentatively, wanting to tell her that it wasn't her fault, that Ron had been a complete arse ever since they had left the Ministry, that this would have happened no matter what. But words would not come to him. So instead, he pulled the blankets up over her shaking body and walked away.

"I'm going to go outside for a bit," Harry mumbled, but he wasn't sure if she had heard him; she was crying so loudly.

He made to exit the tent, but the glint of the Horcrux caught his eye from the floor. He knew he could not ask Hermione to wear it now, not after everything that happened, but he also knew that it would not be safe to leave it lying around the tent. _I can control myself_, Harry thought, suddenly determined. _He's wrong. I am the ruler of my own emotions._

In a split second decision, the boy picked up the Horcrux, placed it around his neck, and walked out into the night.

The cool of the night air was pleasant against his face, which was hot from the argument that he had just had. The clearing in which they had set up their tent was deserted; there was no doubt that Ron had left them. He was gone.

Harry settled himself on the ground underneath a tree a little ways from the tent, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. Ron's words had stung, and they had only reflected the taunts that Voldemort had been slipping into his mind more and more often over the past weeks—that he was a coward, that they weren't getting anywhere, that he was letting everyone else fight and die for him while he flitted uselessly across the countryside like a common tourist.

Something warm was suddenly pressing against his collarbone. Frowning, Harry reached inside of his shirt and pulled out the locket, the jewels of which were suddenly growing a bright and brilliant green.

Harry stared, transfixed, at the locket. He remembered vaguely that he had felt this way when he'd first seen it in the Ministry, and then again in Hermione's fingers later that day. He had since avoided looking at it, but as he sat there now, staring at the intricate design created of jewels that made up the "S," Harry couldn't remember why he had stayed so far away from the thing. After all, it was so _pretty_; he could look at this beautiful necklace all day long and never grow tired of it.

It seemed to pulse beneath his touch, and a warmth began to spread up from his fingertips, through his elbows, like molten pleasure. It travelled up his shoulders to his neck, and then to his ear, where a soft voice, familiar but not at the same time, whispered, "_Harry_."

His fingers began to tremble, and he took the locket off from around his neck, holding it tenderly in his hands. A part of him knew that he should put it down, that he should throw it across the campsite and run away from it, but at the same time he knew that he couldn't, that it was too late to go back now.

"_Harry, I wish to speak with you_," the locket whispered, and Harry felt as though he were drowning in the hissing in his mind, drowning in those glowing green jewels. "_I wish to see your face … let me know you, Harry_ …"

And Harry felt his lips part, heard the word, "_Open_," slither between his lips as though it had been tugged out by the locket itself.

There was a quiet clicking sound, and he wondered at how such a soft sound could make his heart stop so abruptly in his chest, make every hair on his body rise up in anticipation.

The locket fell open, and Harry dropped it with a gasp.

A pale, white mist had begun to seep out from the space where the locket had cracked open, laying innocent in the grass. Now that Harry was no longer touching it, he no longer felt completely transfixed by its spell; on the contrary, he was quite horrified with what he had done. He took two steps backward as the sparkling white mist began to take on the shape of a person, parts of it clearing to become more and more defined. There were arms, and legs, and long, spindly fingers—he knew those fingers—

In the blink of an eye, Harry was staring at the young, handsome memory of Tom Riddle, Jr., who stood only a few feet away from him.

"Hello, Harry," said the mist that was Tom, and Harry saw with a blank horror that there were red freckles swimming in his gray eyes, that his lips were a pale, muted pink. Aside from his fuzzy edges that melted into the air, this boy could have been real.

"What are you … how are you …"

"I am a memory, Harry," Tom said, confirming what he already knew. "I live only inside of this locket."

"But how do you know who I am?" Harry asked, genuinely confused. This Tom Riddle

(_and he really was quite handsome, with those piercing gray eyes and his dark, smooth hair_)

only looked in his mid-twenties; there was no way that he could possibly have known who Harry was, or why he would be in possession of his Horcrux.

"I've been watching you, Harry," said Tom quietly, and he took a step forward, leaving a trail of gray mist behind him that connected him back to the locket. "I've been looking into the hearts of those that you call friends, learning about you, your life, your dreams, and I must say, I find you rather … fascinating."

Harry couldn't suppress a shiver at these words, the very same that Voldemort had said to him not so long ago, coming from a mouth that sounded so very much like his enemy's.

"You are quite beautiful," Tom pressed on bluntly, tilting his head as he examined him intently, and Harry shied back in surprise at this. "Have I ever touched you, taken you, as the man that I am today in my current form?"

(_a flash of fingertips in a dark hallway, making the skin on his throat sing beneath their touch, rendering him a puddle of nerves and feeling_)

Harry shook his head, a flush creeping up his cheeks. "No," he half-lied.

"Shame," Tom murmured, his gaze thoughtful. The hunger in his eyes as he stared at Harry was so familiar it was uncanny, and Harry would have shrunk back from the intensity of it had he not reminded himself that _this_ Tom was only a memory, that he could not touch him here. Harry could not be hurt by feelings; he had nothing to fear.

"I've been watching you Harry," the misty form of Tom Riddle repeated, yanking him from his thoughts, and the memory stepped closer. "Watching you through the eyes of your friends."

He reached out a pale, transparent hand and brushed Harry's cheek. Harry did not feel solid fingers against his skin as he half-expected, but rather an electric fire that spread from his face down the rest of his body, intoxicating his nerves, his blood.

"They do not appreciate you as I do," Tom said softly; his hand had not left Harry's cheek, and it was hard to concentrate on his words with those warm, relaxing waves washing over his body. "They resent you for your determination, your power. They are jealous of your abilities. They wish to see you fail."

Tom turned his fingers so that his palm rested flat on Harry's face now, and a tingling warmth seemed to spread from the place where their skin met and trickle down Harry's arms, his fingers, his thighs, all the way down to his toes. He was not completely sure of what Tom was saying, but he found himself agreeing anyway. Harry thought that he might agree with anything this memory said at the moment, and how could he not when he coaxed such wonderful sensations from deep within Harry's body, when he could just as easily take that hand away and leave Harry naked and empty of the pleasant warmth filling inside him.

"I do not resent you, Harry," whispered Tom, and Harry noticed again how devastatingly handsome the young man was from this close, the red specks floating in his gray eyes. "I could never do anything but admire you."

He placed the palm of his other hand on Harry's cheek now, and Harry's eyelashes fluttered as he was reminded of this same man touching him like this, many years later and many months in the past at the same time.

"Your face is so soft," Tom murmured, and the warmth seemed to grow and expand inside of him, a beautiful, living thing. "It frightens me, how much I long to touch it."

And his fingers spread down Harry's face in a way that was sickeningly familiar, except that it wasn't sickening—it was wonderful, it was perfect. Harry found himself longing to feel real fingers dragging across his skin, not just the delicious warmth that emanated from the misty memory.

"Come with me, Harry," said Tom's voice from somewhere far away, and Harry wasn't sure what the man was saying, just that he would do anything, anything at all to keep this feeling inside of him. "Your friends will betray you, they will leave you and desert you. But I will never leave you, Harry. I will be with you, always."

And those words somehow sounded familiar to Harry, as if he had heard them in a dream long time ago, although he vaguely recalled that they had inspired terror then, not peace and security.

"Come with me," Tom said again, and Harry closed his eyes, felt the locket find its way between his fingers. He felt Tom come closer, closer still, until he had stepped _into _him, and suddenly Harry was glowing with that warmth, that pleasure, nearly overflowing with it. "Come with me," and the voice was inside of him now.

He saw an image of a manor flicker before his eyes, felt his mind concentrate with a will that was not his own, but he was powerless to do anything, powerless to care, powerless to this feeling.

_Come to me, Harry Potter_, and this voice was different somehow, high and cold and dreadfully familiar.

And then his lungs collapsed, and the world dissolved into the darkness.


	9. II:3

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort. This chapter contains sexual content.

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Takes place during DH. Rated M for eventual HP/LV slash.

A/N: Thank you everyone! I really hope you like this next chapter. It's my first time writing a scene like this, so hopefully it turned out alright. Still struggling to keep them as much in character as possible, so feel free to let me know if I'm failing and I'll try even harder. I also know that I have a lot of loose ends that are dangling all over the place still, but I know how they're going to eventually resolve themselves. Don't fret!

Big wonderful thank you's to everyone who's been reviewing and criticizing and loving on this story! Please continue to leave me love and suggestions, it really does make my day. Happy reading!

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><p>3.<p>

When Harry opened his eyes, he was standing at the end of a long, wide lane with neatly manicured hedges lining either side of the road. There were peacocks running about the yard, and the clouds that had obscured the sky in the Forest of Dean were not present here. The full moon lit up everything that he saw, pouring white light across the grass and the bushes.

Before he had even processed his surroundings, however, Harry felt his legs begin moving, walking forward of their own volition, gliding down the lane.

He was thoroughly disconcerted. He wasn't sure where he was, or what was happening, and he was having a lot of trouble _thinking_. Every time a coherent thought began to form in his head, it was drowned by the warmth pulsing through his fingers from the locket.

Harry felt his body turn to the right, almost floating over a driveway that paved in stone, and he realized distantly that he had floated straight through a very solid-looking iron gate. A mansion was visible now in the distance, large and imposing, and it stirred in Harry a sense of foreboding that even the Horcrux's warmth could not erase.

"_I am with you, Harry_," the locket whispered, and the mist that had been Tom Riddle was drawn out of his body in a sigh, returning to flood back in where the "S" had split open. But the pleasant feeling with which it had filled him had not receded; it still pulsed, a living thing, through his fingertips, and his body continued to glide toward the manor as though it were dragged by a magnet. He felt as though he were watching himself from very far away.

Harry had just enough time to notice an ornate serpent on the door to the manor before it swung open, as if anticipating his arrival. He felt himself walk down the hallway, felt the eyes of many portraits following him as he went. He was vaguely aware that something was very wrong with this, that he was in danger. But he could not remember how to be worried or how to care, or even how to take control of his own legs, which were now carrying him to a very large wooden door at the end of the hall.

This door was thrown open as well when he drew near to it, except he felt his legs stop this time as soon as he had walked through the threshold.

A loud, excited shriek rang through the room.

The sound jarred Harry slightly out of his trance, and he blinked. He was able to gather enough of his mind to take in the details of the room before him. A long, handsome table sat in the center of the room, with an elegant marble fireplace on the opposite wall. There were at least a dozen chairs lining the table, and a large empty throne sat in front of the fireplace at the head of the table. An involuntary shiver ran down Harry's spine as he stared at the throne, but he couldn't understand where his fear sprang from, couldn't bring himself to care.

And there he noticed, next to the throne, a handful of people sat, staring at him with mixes of shock and terror on their faces. Among them were Severus Snape

(_and Harry could remember why he felt a surge of hatred for this man, who had stood and pointed his wand in the face of a man who had trusted him with his life and uttered the curse that would kill him_)

and Bellatrix Lestrange, who was gaping at him with a rabid, hungry expression in her eyes.

"_Expelliarmus!_" Bellatrix cried, flicking her wand, and Harry felt his own wand fly out from the back of his jean pocket. She laughed almost hysterically when Harry simply stood there, unable to react.

"Ickle Harry Potter!" Bellatrix called shrilly, and she flew around the table to face him, wand still outstretched. "How wonderful that the Boy Who Lived might finally _grace _us with his presence!"

"Bellatrix," said Snape, his voice low and dangerous, but the woman with her wild black hair and deranged eyes ignored the warning in his tone.

"I'm going to have some fun with Potter while he's still here, Severus—it's only fair, he's caused us so much _pain_ to begin with, after all," Bellatrix spat in response, and she raised her wand, pointing it in Harry's direction, a manic grin curling her lips. "_Crucio!_"

Pain—mind-numbing, overwhelming, horrible pain—exploded in every nerve of his body, and Harry's limbs seized up in reaction, the locket tumbling from his fingers to bounce onto the floor. As soon the locket left his fingertips, the pulsing warmth that had held him captive also rushed out of him, and Harry fell to the floor, writhing, screaming. It was terrible, it was worse than any pain Voldemort had ever caused him, and he was sure as he flailed about on the floor that nothing would ever be right again—

A nudging, familiar presence in his mind, passive, detached from Harry's pain, drawn to it. And then a raging, boiling anger that made Harry remember suddenly what it was like to feel hatred again, to feel something other than pain and warmth.

Barely seconds had passed before Harry felt the anger draw nearer to him, rushing at him like a great wave of fire.

He felt Voldemort arrive before he saw him.

"_BELLATRIX_," a horrible, high voice roared from behind him, and suddenly the curse was lifted and a woman's terrified screams pierced the air. Harry lay crumpled on the ground, trembling and trying to catch his breath as those awful, heart-wrenching screams continued to fill the room, going on and on and on …

After what seemed like an eternity, the screaming ended, and Harry shut his eyes, trying to will his arms and his legs to stop shaking.

"I thought that I was very clear, Bella," Voldemort's voice rang coldly from above him, "that no one was to touch him but _me_."

Another horrible scream, and Harry felt a rush of magic flash over his head from where Voldemort stood behind him.

"He is _mine_," his enemy continued, his voice dangerous and soft. "Is there anything else I can do to make this any clearer for you?"

"No, my lord," Bellatrix sobbed from across the hall, "no, I completely understand, please, forgive me—"

"_Silence_," hissed Voldemort, and she immediately stopped talking. For a few moments, there was only the sound of her sniffling and the deafening beating of Harry's heart.

After a long moment, a pale, elegant hand entered his line of vision and brushed against the locket lying open on the ground. It then moved to Harry's chin, where it gently guided his face to look up into Voldemort's curious, probing eyes.

"How kind of you to join us, Harry," Voldemort mused, and he was looking at Harry as though he had never seen him before.

It seemed as though Voldemort expected him to respond, but Harry did not know what to say, and he wasn't sure if his tongue, numb with terror, would even work if he tried to put it to use; so Harry only looked back up at him, feeling rather stupid.

The man was incredibly powerful. It was paralyzing, how power seemed to roll off of his body in waves, almost a tangible, electric substance. He commanded authority with his mere presence, with the simple narrowing of his eyes or the cruel twist of his lips.

"Severus," said Voldemort, never looking away from Harry. "Show our guest to my quarters. I think I need to have a private chat with Bella before I deal with him."

The woman whimpered, and Harry felt a surge of vindication at the pain she had felt, at the danger that lay behind the silk in Voldemort's voice. His satisfaction was replaced by surprise, however, when a hand roughly seized him by the back of his shirt, yanking him to his feet abruptly.

"Come, Potter," Snape barked, his tone dripping with resentment. He grabbed Harry's arm tightly and pulled him toward the heavy wooden door. Harry threw one more glance backward at Voldemort, who was now towering over the cowering form of Bellatrix on the ground, before the door slammed shut behind them.

Snape half-led, half-dragged Harry up a handsome marble staircase. More portraits stared at Harry as they went, some of them whispering, their eyes wide, others glaring down at him. Renewed shrieks from Bellatrix followed them as they emerged onto the landing and rounded a corner: "No, no, master, PLEASE! I'm _sorry! _I won't, I swear, please! _Please!_"

Harry tried unsuccessfully to repress a shudder as Bellatrix's terrible screams echoed through the hall again. The torture that she was undoubtedly suffering at the moment would most likely pale in comparison to what Voldemort would do to Harry when he was through with him. He had escaped Voldemort on two separate occasions this year already and had stolen his Horcrux from him with the intention of destroying it. He was sure that Voldemort would not allow him to walk away from him alive once again.

And yet … Voldemort had called Harry his "guest." He had looked at Harry with the same tenderness in his eyes as the misty memory of Tom Riddle, with the same tenderness that Hermione saved only for Ron when he wasn't busy being a raging idiot.

"In here," said Snape gruffly. They had travelled down another long hallway, and halted now at the end, where there were two large mahogany double doors. He stopped and faced Harry, the expression on his face unreadable.

"I'm not sure what you're playing at, Mr. Potter, but I assure you that marching straight into the Dark Lord's domain certainly was _not _the most intelligent movement in your little strategy. This war is not a game."

Harry scowled, fists clenching. He felt a new rush of hatred for this miserable person standing in front of him. "I know that, I didn't mean for—"

"But in fact," Snape continued over him, acting as though he had not heard, "if you ever are wondering about your next destination, keep in mind that I was rather surprised not to see you back at Hogwarts this September."

Harry blinked at Snape, bewildered. Did he really think that Harry would have returned to school after everything that had happened? That would have been like walking into a death trap; Snape must really believe that Harry was truly dense.

Harry opened his mouth to retort, determined to defend his intelligence, but his ex-Potion professor silenced him with a glare.

"What I mean to say, Mr. Potter," Snape continued cryptically, his voice dropping to just above a whisper, "is that you will find what you're searching for at your old school. Only you will be able to retrieve it."

The man paused, and Harry continued to stare at him as though he had grown another head, trying to figure out what on earth he could possibly mean. Before he could ask, however, Snape had opened his mouth to speak again.

"Tread carefully, Potter. The Dark Lord does not like to play with his food. This is not a game."

And with this, he turned on his heel and strode back down the hallway whence they came, his heavy, black cloak billowing behind him. Harry was left standing, mouth slack, gaping at the place where Snape had stood. What could he have been getting at? Was this simply a trick designed to trap Harry back at Hogwarts where the Death Eaters could easily find him and catch him? But why did Snape need to trick him? _After all_, Harry reminded himself, his stomach clenching at the thought, _I've already just delivered myself straight into Voldemort's hands._

Trapping Harry was no longer a concern.

When he looked back to find his ex-professor, however, he found that Snape had vanished down the staircase.

It was clear what he was expected to do. The double doors to Voldemort's chambers stood before him, looming ominously out of the corner of his vision, calling to him. Snape had not brought him here to stand out in the hallway, after all. Swallowing, Harry grasped the bronze handle to the door and pushed it open.

Inside, Harry found a grandiose, comfortable sitting room. The cold marble and stone of the rest of the manor dominated this room as well, but the handsome fireplace that sat in the center wall was crackling with flames, two plush armchairs pulled in front of it on a deep green rug. Harry stepped inside hesitantly, eager to get closer to the warmth, the only source of comfort in this terrible place.

There were no portraits on the walls, he saw, but rather paintings and statues of snakes. A large, handsome chest sat in the corner of the room, with another snake figurine fastened in the center of it, twisting around a large, golden lock. Harry walked over to it and tentatively traced the golden animal with his finger. The snake's eyes glowed a momentary red before Harry drew his hand away, and they faded back to lifelessness.

Harry continued browsing around the room, one that he had seen often in his dreams, and he tried to picture Voldemort sitting in here, casually discussing his plans for murder and devastation. A small tray table sat adjacent to the larger of the two armchairs, an empty teacup and plate sitting atop it. Harry tried to imagine Voldemort sitting there, sipping tea and munching on biscuits, and he had to suppress a bubble of laughter.

"I actually rather enjoy tea," said an icy voice from the doorway, and it swept Harry's amusement from his chest immediately. "I am much more human than you may think, Harry."

Harry whirled around to find Voldemort framed in the doorway, his eyes dark and contemplative. Harry felt very unnerved by this; how long had he been standing there, watching him?

"Although it seems as though you have already been acquainted with a more human incarnation of myself this evening," Voldemort continued, stepping into the room. Harry felt the air change around him as the man walked inside, as if his mere entrance attracted the attention of every particle in the room, rushing toward this being of power and authority.

Voldemort lifted a finger, and the door swung shut quietly behind him. His hand then disappeared into his sleeve, and when it emerged, the locket was dangling from it by its golden chain, still hanging open from Harry's encounter with it earlier that night.

It amazed and frightened Harry at the same time, how much power this man held in just a few fingers. He realized that he was suddenly terrified, remembering Bellatrix's screams and his thoughts that his own punishment would be much worse, and he felt very naked without his wand.

The words came tumbling out before Harry could stop them. "Are you going to torture me?"

Voldemort's eyes flashed with surprised, and then he chuckled, a low, surprisingly pleasant sound. "Torture you?" Voldemort asked, feigning shock at this idea. "But Harry, you've been so very kind to return my locket to me. Unless, that is," and his eyes narrowed dangerously, "you've done something else that would warrant my wrath."

Harry tried to swallow, but found that his mouth was too dry. "N-No … I don't … I don't think so …"

He was very confused. Why hadn't Voldemort killed him yet? The only thing that had prevented him from killing Harry after he had escaped from the Ministry was the fact that the Horcrux had been in the hands of Harry's friends, and Voldemort had needed Harry alive and speaking to tell him where it was. But now … Harry had come and practically handed the Horcrux over to Voldemort on a silver platter. Why wasn't Harry writhing on the floor in pain, suffering under the same curses that Voldemort had just inflicted upon Bellatrix?

"Come, Harry, sit down," Voldemort said, snatching him from his thoughts, and Harry had the distinct impression that Voldemort had been lurking in Harry's mind. The man was gesturing to the smaller of the two armchairs, and Harry went to sit down in it warily. It crossed his mind that chains may spring up and bind him there like the chair in the Ministry courtroom, but when he had settled his weight in the chair, he was relieved (and confused) to see that nothing happened.

Voldemort crossed the room to the chest, where he hissed something in Parseltongue. The snake's eyes glowed red once more, and it began to slither around the golden lock, making a full revolution before it stopped and the lock split in half. Voldemort lifted a finger and the lid of the chest creaked slowly open. Inside, Harry saw two objects glinting gold and silver respectively, and Voldemort tenderly placed the locket inside of the chest with them. He shut the lid before Harry had a chance to get a better glimpse of what was inside.

"_Close, and open only for me_," Voldemort hissed to the tiny engraving of the snake, stroking it with a long, pale finger. The snake's eyes began glowing as it slithered around the lock once more.

Voldemort walked back toward the fireplace, and Harry was once again filled with a sense of foreboding as he watched the graceful, powerful movements of the man who wanted him dead.

Voldemort sat in the chair across from him, still examining Harry with that curious, intent gaze. Harry felt uncomfortable with how raptly his enemy was scrutinizing him, and he found that he had to turn his gaze away before his cheeks began burning again.

A few moments passed between them, the crackling of the wood logs in the fireplace the only sound in the room, the flames making shadows dance across the floor.

"Tell me, Harry," said Voldemort softly after the brief silence, and Harry's eyes were irresistibly drawn to look his enemy in the eye as he spoke. Voldemort's next words slithered from his lips in a hiss, and it took Harry a moment to realize that he was speaking in Parseltongue. "_How long have you known the ancient tongue_?"

Harry blinked. Why would Voldemort be interested in that?

"_For as long as I can remember_," Harry responded in kind, and it was easy for him to imagine a snake when he was staring into Voldemort's face, although it really was more human than he'd remembered—his skin looked so soft and smooth, and his lips were the same pale pink and even the same plush shape as the memory of Tom Riddle's.

Voldemort's gaze seemed to intensify, and Harry vaguely recognized the expression concealed behind his eyes: it was the same hunger that had been plain in Tom's face as well.

"Why do you look at me that way?" Harry blurted out, and to his surprise, his voice was hoarse with fear. He flushed, cleared his throat, and continued, gaining courage as he went on. "Why do you … did you touch me that way? You hate me, you want me dead, you've told me as much as often as you can, every day. Why haven't you killed me yet?"

Amusement flickered in Voldemort's eyes at this, and the corners of his lips curled into a slight smirk. "Perhaps I can answer at least one of those questions," he said quietly, and the hunger had travelled into his voice now, making Harry's hair stand up in a violent shiver.

Before Harry could even blink an eye, Voldemort had stood up and come to stand in front of him in three swift strides. The man seized Harry by the front of his shirt and pulled him roughly to his feet, and Harry felt a thrill of terror at this—Voldemort was going to kill him now: that was the question that he was going to answer. If only Harry had kept his stupid mouth shut, he could have lived for just a little longer.

Still holding handfuls of Harry's shirt, Voldemort swung him around and shoved him up against the wall adjacent to the fireplace, holding him so that only the tips of his shoes were brushing the ground; their eyes were on the same level, and it occurred to Harry how strong this man was, to hold his weight so effortlessly against the wall.

"I touch you," Voldemort hissed, and his lips were very close to Harry's own as he spoke, "because the thought of your eyes, your lips, has consumed me since the day you stole my locket."

Harry's eyes widened, his lips parting as his breath came a little heavier from the adrenaline that was rushing through his veins—along with something else that Harry couldn't quite put his finger on.

"I touch you," Voldemort continued harshly, and when he pulled his hands away from Harry's shirt, he found himself suspended to the wall again in a scene eerily reminiscent of the dark hallway that had haunted Harry's dreams, "because I cannot bear to do anything but."

His fingers met Harry's face then, running over his cheeks and his hair and his ears as though they had been impossibly thirsty for the feel of his skin. They worked magic there, sending his mind and senses reeling, and the touch of real, solid fingers was a thousand times better than the ghostly warmth of the memory's.

"But—" Harry spluttered, trying to grab hold of his thoughts, especially the one that was screaming that this was a dangerous trap, that these feelings were all wrong, that Voldemort had been telling him as much for many months. "But you said that—that love—"

"There is _no such thing_ as love," Voldemort spat angrily, and his fingernails dragged down Harry's neck, tracing the arteries in his throat, tearing a gasp from beneath the skin. "Love is a fallacy, a lie that ruins little boys and clouds their thoughts and rips people apart, shredding their fragile little hearts from the inside out."

His hands slid to Harry's shoulders now, and with an unintelligible whisper from Voldemort, his shirt suddenly vanished, leaving his torso naked and cold. "Love is a lie, Harry, but _this_—" and his fingers ran down Harry's chest, scraping the hardening stubs of his nipples with his fingernails and pressing against his stomach. "This is real."

And he could have sworn that he'd then heard, in his mind: _and it's not one of your sick, arousing fantasies, either_. But he did not have time to dwell on this (or how Voldemort had gotten that information, for that matter), because now his hands were drinking in Harry's body like it was a pool of water in the middle of a desert. An apt comparison, Harry thought, because right about now he would have believed wholeheartedly that his limbs had been transfigured into water, trembling and weak as they were beneath Voldemort's flaming touches.

His fingers licked fire across his chest, his stomach, his pounding heart. They traced every one of Harry's ribs carefully, delicately, and then moved to slide down his sides to the small of his back, then back to his front again.

The hands slipped to Harry's hips next, and suddenly his trousers were gone too, and the boxers beneath them. Harry was standing completely naked before Voldemort's hungry red eyes, which were roving his body as if committing it to memory, and Harry saw with a groan that his desire was embarrassingly obvious, jutting out into the cool air of the sitting room. He blushed a deep scarlet as he thought about the humiliation of the entire situation, his vulnerability, naked against a wall before his murderer.

And then Voldemort's fingers slipped lower, and Harry stopped thinking.

"_You are mine, Harry_," Voldemort whispered from deep within his mind, his heart. The words pulsed with his blood, which was pumping steadily downward toward where Voldemort's fingers curled around Harry's arousal.

"_Mine_," he said again, and Harry whimpered, straining against those long, horrible, beautiful fingers, which were teasing all manners of obscene noises from Harry's lips.

The fingers tightened, and Harry threw back his head, gasping for breath now—and when had it become so hard to breathe? A murmured spell, and suddenly Voldemort's fingers were slick and warm and squeezing harder against Harry's erection, and the boy cried out beneath them, completely at mercy to their long, slow, powerful strokes. "_Mine_," and they began to go faster, sliding up and down and up again, making him cry out and writhe against the wall, biting his lip—

(_and oh, he had dreamt of this, he had wished for this, even if he hadn't admitted it; for these elegant fingers to close around him and stroke him and bring him closer and closer to_)

—and those beautiful fingers were pounding up and down his cock now, and his other hand was massaging the inside of Harry's thigh, and then, oh_, _oh_ yes, _a slick finger was circling his entrance, teasing it open, even as the other hand continued its merciless assault on his cock, on his senses—

(_oh please oh please oh please oh_)

—and who knew he could feel like this? That these sensations had always been simmering beneath his skin, waiting for Voldemort to coax them to the surface? And then he felt the slick fingertip push against him and then, oh, _yes_, inside, he was inside now, sliding in and out as his other hand slid up and down and, oh, Harry was so _close_, he was going to—

(_please oh please oh please oh please_ _oh_)

"—_please,_" he whimpered, and the word fell from Harry's lips frantically, so quiet and hoarse that Harry wasn't sure if Voldemort had even heard it.

"_Look at me_," Voldemort responded, his voice calm, an immovable boulder in the raging rapids of his thoughts.

His eyelashes fluttered open for just a moment, his vision swimming with hot, heady sensation—and he mewled at the sudden twist of those fingers, still working him harder, faster,_inside_ of him, slick and hot and _oh_—and he saw Voldemort's blood-red eyes, staring down at him, soaking in Harry's pleasure.

Another twist, and the look in those haunting eyes, and that was all that Harry needed.

His head fell back against the wall, his mouth fell open, and with a loud cry, he spiraled into white, hot, beautiful oblivion.

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><p><em>AN: *gulps* Hope that turned out okay! If you have a few seconds, please let me know what you think! And thank you so much for reading!_


	10. II:4

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort.

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Takes place during DH. Rated M for eventual HP/LV slash.

A/N: Wow! Thank you soooo much to everyone who's reviewed! All the reviews/favorites/alerts have made me so exceedingly happy, I can't even begin to explain, hahaha. I've been a little busy with classes, but I am trying to update at the very most every two days, so I'm sorry for the delay.

I feel like this chapter's really long for the small amount of things that happens in it, but I just have so much fun writing about their interactions, the words just won't stop coming out of my fingers, hahaha. Feel free to tell me if I'm rambling. Anyway, thank you again, let me know what you think, etc. Bon appetit!

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><p>4.<p>

Harry came down from his orgasm in long, hot, pulsating waves that wracked his body violently against the wall. His mind was spinning, and his thoughts wouldn't stay still long enough for him to grab hold of one and anchor himself back down to earth.

It seemed as though Voldemort would do that for him. A moment later, he was released from the spell holding him in the air, accompanied by a flicker of amusement in the back of his skull. Harry crumpled on the floor, gasping for breath and wondering if this was the other man's idea of a sense of humor.

Sense of humor? _Voldemort_? Harry shook himself, trying to figure out when he had stepped into an alternate reality, where Voldemort had a sense of humor and drank tea and had beautiful fingers that could do _that_ to him.

He sat with his back against the wall, eyes closed, trying to collect himself, trying to understand what had just happened, what he had just done. When the realization began to dawn in his mind—of what this was, of what he had let this person do to him—Harry felt shame begin to settle inside of him, replacing the warm shock of pleasure that had coiled there a few seconds ago.

"Does that answer your question?"

Harry looked up, and became aware that he was still very much naked. He quickly pulled his knees up to his chest, awkward, and felt another flash of amusement from the man that lived in his head.

"Must you be so shy, Harry?" Voldemort mused, and he settled himself on the larger of the two armchairs, watching the boy who sat on the floor. "I have watched you since you were a smelly, disgusting infant. How long will you insist on running from your own thoughts?"

Harry swallowed, raised his eyes to meet red ones from across the room. Voldemort had been right: Harry would never be able to run from him, escape from him, or even have enough power to kill him. Harry had been unable to resist him. He had been possessed by the Horcrux, had dropped it right into Voldemort's expectant hands, and then had allowed those hands to make a fool out of him. Voldemort had won.

Rage began to burn inside of him as he stared back at his enemy, and he realized that, for once, it was entirely his own.

This was his parents' murderer. This was the man who had created the monsters that would murder his godfather, torture Neville's parents, and ruin his entire life. This was the man who had spent the past six years of Harry's life doing everything he could to kill him.

And now, now that Harry had walked straight into his enemy's home—or wherever the hell this was—Voldemort had decided not to kill him, but to humiliate him, stripping him naked, stirring emotions in him that no female had ever had the power to before. Voldemort had not allowed him to give up, even unwillingly.

Harry gritted his teeth, still painfully aware of his nudity, and hiked his knees up higher in spite. "You didn't answer my other question."

Voldemort's eyes flashed threateningly. "Continue to speak to me like an unappreciative little brat, Potter, and I will begin treating you like one," he said, the warning clear in his voice, and the abrupt switch to his surname surprised Harry, who was momentarily speechless. "You should feel grateful that you are still breathing and unharmed. Didn't your parents teach you any manners?" He paused then, and a smug smirk curled his thin lips. "Oh, wait …"

It took every ounce of self-control that Harry had to refrain from launching himself across the room and strangling him.

"_Grateful_?" he spat, scowling, and he pushed himself to his feet, forgetting his nakedness for a moment in favor of standing up to his enemy. "Grateful? I'm supposed to be _grateful_ for everything that you've done to me? I will never _thank_ you for anything, not even for putting me out of this wretched misery that you've made my life!"

Voldemort simply sat there, staring, and Harry could not sense the emotion lurking beneath the stormy blood in his eyes. This frightened him badly—but he wouldn't be afraid now, he couldn't give Voldemort that satisfaction, or any more satisfaction at all for that matter. So Harry clung onto the only other thing he knew at the moment: his brave, foolish anger.

"You always ask why I keep running from you," Harry plowed onward, gathering his courage and squeezing his fingers into fists. The pain of his fingernails in his palms distracted him from the cold fear rising in his throat, stirred in his stomach by the dangerous glint in Voldemort's eyes. "Well, I'll answer you a question, too. It's because I would rather be running, be a coward—I would rather be _dead_—than live with you inside my mind."

These words fell like stones in the quiet room, and Harry simply stood there for a moment, chest heaving, fear and anger twisting and fusing inside of his lungs like a great shape-shifting monster. That was it, then, Harry thought. He had certainly stepped too far now. If the tone of Harry's voice had made Voldemort angry before, he knew that the man must be positively seething now. This was it. He had lost.

And Harry was surprised to realize that, in a sense, it was okay. He had always known that this was the truth of things, even if he had refused to admit it. Voldemort was infinitely stronger than Harry could ever hope to be. He was more powerful than any other wizard to have ever lived.

And what was even worse: Harry had been unable to resist the magnetic draw of his power. Voldemort had been able to take complete control over Harry, from possessing his thoughts through his scar to possessing his heart through the Horcrux.

Somehow, Harry had always known that it would come to this—that they truly were just little mice, scampering along the countryside, playing with Dark magic far too powerful for them. Waiting for Voldemort to crush them under the heel of his foot.

At least it could still be honorable. Although this was not the way that Harry would have chosen to go, standing naked in Voldemort's drawing room with semen splattered across his abdomen. His cheeks flushed a little at this thought, but he was determined now.

"Just kill me, then," said Harry. His fingers relaxed, nails withdrawing from his palms. "Please. That's what this is all about, anyway; it's what it's always been about," he went on, and he felt his muscles shedding tension as he stood there, facing death. "Kill me."

Voldemort examined his face intently, and Harry bit his cheek, bracing himself for the impact of the spell, for the moment that Voldemort's wand would flash out and he would see nothing but green. But no impact came; the man simply went on staring at him, scrutinizing Harry as though he were an exhibit in the zoo. Finally, the man stood up, slowly, his eyes never leaving Harry's face, and he spoke.

"Although I must admit that it is quite difficult to deny you anything when you ask so … _nicely_," he murmured, and his hungry eyes flicked momentarily down Harry's body, making him flush anew, "it pains me to confess that my desire to see your lifeless body at my feet is no longer a possibility."

Harry swallowed, and he was so damn confused again, just as he had been when Voldemort hadn't killed him in the first place as soon as they were alone.

"I don't understand," Harry said uncertainly.

"I would be happy to explain if you displayed even the slightest mental capacity for difficult concepts," Voldemort responded icily, "but every time a lick of intelligence flickers behind your eyes, that mushy brain of yours rushes in to smother it with emotion."

Harry opened his mouth dumbly to respond, and then clicked it shut, speechless. He almost began to feel angry again, the corners of his lips twisting into a frown, but Voldemort's fingers came forward to press firmly against his mouth.

"You see, this is _precisely _what I'm talking about," Voldemort chastised him, his eyes growing dark. "If you don't begin to show a little potential, Harry, this is going to be a lot less enjoyable for both of us. Now why don't you just sit down, close your impertinent mouth, and listen to me."

It didn't seem as though he had much of a choice. Swallowing, Harry sat down in the chair and covered himself with folded arms, hunching over his lap. When Voldemort saw this, he sighed impatiently and pulled out his wand. For a moment, Harry thought that he was going to curse him, and he shrunk back expectantly; but instead, a black blanket fell from thin air, draping over his legs to cover him.

Harry stared, bewildered, as the man sat down opposite him, and he almost opened his mouth to thank him when he recalled the promise he had made barely minutes ago before he had asked Voldemort to kill him.

Oh, the irony.

"Harry," Voldemort said, and his name sounded different somehow when he said it like that, in one soft exhale. "You are a Parselmouth."

Harry stared blankly back at him. When Voldemort did not continue, Harry replied smartly, "That's me."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, but he did not comment. "I am the last descendant of Salazar Slytherin," he continued, "the last human to be born with the gift of Parseltongue."

Harry frowned. "But that can't be right, I can speak Parseltongue as well."

"Even if by some strange chance, you had been born with knowledge of the ancient gift," Voldemort pressed forward, as though Harry had not spoken, "I am the only person who can open my locket and access the memory inside."

Harry's frown deepened. Was Voldemort toying with him? "But that can't be right, either—I opened the locket just before I came here. I told it to open, and it did, and then … you came out of it."

He could see that Voldemort was beginning to grow impatient now, but Harry wasn't sure what to do; he simply could not understand what Voldemort was getting at with this.

"Have you never wondered, Harry Potter," Voldemort said softly, his eyes burning into Harry's own, "why you can hear my thoughts, and I yours? Why you can speak the tongue of snakes? Why the Sorting Hat would consider putting you in Slytherin, when you have a heart that is softer than the center of an overripe fruit?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of Voldemort's gaze. "Dumbledore told me"—Voldemort flinched visibly at the name, something which almost made Harry laugh; who knew the Dark Lord regarded Dumbledore's name with the same fear that the wizarding world regarded his own?—"that you when you tried to kill me, and you left me my scar, you transferred some of your … powers into me."

Voldemort leaned forward, waiting, staring. "Think, Harry," he whispered, and pressed a little on Harry's mind. "_Think_."

Harry's eyes wandered to his enemy's lips again, and he was reminded of how they were so like those of Tom Riddle's, and how he had wanted to press his mouth against them then when the beautiful boy had emerged from the Horcrux …

_Wait a minute_.

Harry stared at Voldemort, his mind reeling in shock, uncomprehending. He thought that he very well might be sick all over the floor. This couldn't be, there was no way that it could be true, it simply wasn't possible …

Voldemort sat up a little straighter, triumph dancing in his eyes. "I suppose there is hope for you yet, you foolish boy," he said, daring to smile at Harry when the weight of these horrible, sickening feelings were threatening to suck him straight into the earth.

"No," Harry said quietly, and he stood up, clutching the blanket around him, and backed away from Voldemort. "But … but no, it's not true, I have nothing to do with you …"

"On the contrary, Harry," Voldemort said, standing up, eyes blazing, "you have _everything _to do with me. You are _mine_."

"No!" Harry cried, and he had backed himself up against the wall again—how did this keep happening? "No, I'm not, you're nothing like me, we are nothing alike!"

"We are one and the same, Harry Potter," Voldemort replied, stalking toward him, powerful and graceful and terrifying and beautiful all at once.

"We are not the same," Harry said, babbling in his desperation to believe that this wasn't real, that Voldemort was lying to him. "Dumbledore said so, he said that love makes us different, it separates us—"

"Ah, yes, _love_," Voldemort hissed, stepping very close to Harry. "Dumbledore's favorite spell. You are correct, Harry. I don't believe in love. I don't believe in emotions. I feel nothing but anger, and power."

Harry snarled, getting in the other man's face. "You think you're so above me?" he said loudly, and he was vaguely aware that this was as good as suicide, raising his voice to the Dark Lord like this. "What do you call crying when those Muggles were throwing dirt at you, then? Tell me all about the _power_ in that!"

The change came about in an instant. One second, Voldemort had been cool, calm, and collected, assessing Harry as though he were an entertaining lab specimen; the next, Voldemort's face contorted with pure, unadulterated rage.

"That was the weakness of a little half-blood swine!" he retorted, his eyes on fire, and the only way that Harry could not retreat in complete terror was by clinging to the twisted pleasure of this, of egging on this evil man who claimed to have no feelings.

"Well, what do you call what happened before, then? That must be recent enough for your memory," Harry responded nastily, anger and terror and _excitement _pulsing together like a poison through every inch of him. "What do you call the past few months of undressing me with your mind? You fucking hypocrite, you criticize me for responding to your advances, but meanwhile—what do you call—" and Harry _knew _he must have a death wish now, but he gathered every bit of courage he had and did it anyway—"what do you call _this_?"

He reached forward, before he could think twice about it, and pulled Voldemort flush with his body, shoving a thigh roughly between the other man's legs. And there it was, unmistakable, hard and hot against his hip. Harry grinned at the other man triumphantly—Voldemort could berate him as much as he wanted, but the physical evidence of his own_emotions _was pressed against Harry's leg.

Voldemort actually growled then, a low, guttural sound, and he shoved Harry up against the wall, his arm digging into Harry's throat.

"I call it _control_," Voldemort hissed from behind clenched teeth, shoving Harry higher, and the boy whimpered underneath the sharp pressure of his forearm. "In fact, it has taken me an_extraordinary _amount of self-control to restrain myself from doing a great number of things this evening, ranging from wringing your neck to ripping your clothes off and bending you—"

Harry had just opened his mouth to point out that the other man had, in fact, ripped his clothes off as soon as he had gotten Harry alone, but they were both interrupted by a large, thundering crash from the first floor below them.

Voldemort paused, seemingly torn between describing exactly what he wanted to do to Harry and investigating the source of the screaming that was now following the noise. Another crash followed the screaming, however, and this seemed to make up Voldemort's mind for him. He pulled his arm away from Harry's throat, releasing him, to the great relief of Harry's windpipe. He glowered at Harry for a moment, his face a storm of emotion.

"You will remain here," he said, "or you will suffer a punishment far worse than a killing curse."

Voldemort swept out of the room as something else exploded downstairs, leaving Harry trembling in the confusion of his thoughts, which continued to track back to one horrible reality:

He would rather Voldemort have tortured and killed him than to keep him alive to exist as a Horcrux.


	11. II:5

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Takes place during DH. Rated M for eventual HP/LV slash.

A/N: Thanks again to everyone who's been reviewing and following this fic! I hope you enjoy the next chapter.

* * *

><p>5.<p>

The door had clicked shut behind Voldemort, and Harry was left alone, naked except for a flimsy black blanket and the ruddy color that still burned in his cheeks.

What could possibly be going on down there? It sounded like quite the commotion, and someone was yelling very loudly, but Harry could not recognize the muffled voice. A small part of him wished that it was Bellatrix, causing trouble again and invoking Voldemort's anger. Harry knew that Voldemort loathed to be interrupted in general, but the deadly look in his eyes before he had swept out of the room was more frightening than when he had lashed out at Harry just moments before.

He would never want to be on the receiving end of that look.

And yet … could he even _be _on the receiving end of that any longer?

Now that Voldemort knew that he was a Horcrux—and Harry shuddered at this thought again, his stomach clenching unpleasantly—would he really do anything to hurt Harry? He knew how protective his enemy was over his snake, and he had experienced firsthand the fury that had overcome Voldemort when Harry had escaped with the locket.

Even further, Harry had given himself to Voldemort, ready to embrace death, and the man had not even lifted a finger against him. In fact, he had gone so far as to explain the situation to Harry, to try to make him understand. If Voldemort only cared about keeping him alive to host the part of Voldemort's soul that lived inside of him, why hadn't he just locked Harry in a tower somewhere, doing only enough to keep him alive and healthy? He had seemed genuinely concerned with speaking to Harry and explaining exactly what Harry was to him now. He had even asked him to sit, and given him a blanket to cover himself—and then there was the matter of the whole _touching _thing …

Harry was jarred back to the sitting room by another crash, this one shaking the floor beneath him. What the _hell _was going on down there?

And then, a loud, pained shriek, so familiar that was horrible: "_HARRY!"_

His heart must have stopped them, he was sure of it. He couldn't feel his feet, his fingers, and for a moment he really thought that he might have died of fear and dread and outright_shock_.

That had been Hermione's voice, screaming his name. Here, in Voldemort's home, and Voldemort was downstairs with a wand and deadly eyes and a hatred of being interrupted.

(_darkness, and apple pies, and the face of the woman's corpse in the hallway, inches from his own, her eyes wide and glassy and uncomprehending)_

The memory flooded back to Harry's mind as though he had entered a Pensieve, and as he stared into the woman's lifeless eyes, he heard a voice from somewhere above where he lay on the floor:_ I am not pleased when I am lied to, just like I am not pleased when I am interrupted._

"_Hermione!"_ Harry cried out hoarsely, back in the sitting room, and he flew to the door, forgetting that he had no clothes, no wand. His heart was beating a tattoo against his chest; he had to get down there, right now, he had to get down there and help her and save her.

But the handle would not turn.

Harry yelled out in distress, and he twisted the brass handle over and over again, trying to get it to budge. He kicked the door hard, and felt pain explode up his bare foot, but he couldn't feel it, he could only feel the rising panic, the _need _for him to get through this door and downstairs to his best friend who had somehow found her way into the hands of a raving murderer.

It wouldn't budge, it wouldn't move, it wasn't working, and memories poured through Harry's head in an ocean of panic and fear, even as another scream echoed from downstairs.

_I will find her, Harry, and I will kill her._

"Hermione," Harry cried out again, banging on the door with his fists, shoving and pushing at the handle, trying to do anything, everything he could, to get it to move for him.

_I will kill all of them, like little pests. I will crush them with the heel of my foot_. _And then I will find you, and I will kill you, too_.

Even if he wouldn't kill Harry now, there was nothing stopping him from murdering his friends.

_This is all my fault_, he thought, and the realization made him want to tear his hair out, to jump off the top of a mountain, to do _anything _but think on the fact that his best friends would have obviously followed him to his very last breath. But he could not die with them. Their lives were wasted, and he was entirely to blame.

The commotion appeared to have stopped downstairs. A horrible silence hung heavy in the air, and tears sprang unbidden to Harry's eyes.

_All my fault._

He sank to the floor, his knuckles and his foot throbbing in sharp pulses of pain, and wept.

* * *

><p>It seemed an eternity before Voldemort returned.<p>

The door glowed momentarily with magic and then swung open, enabling Harry a brief glimpse into the hallway before thin black robes obscured his view. Harry's tears had long since dried, although there were salty trails down his cheeks and he was sure that his eyes must be rather red.

He did not bother to disguise the fact that he had been crying as Voldemort closed the door behind him, looking surprised to see Harry sitting beside the doorway.

"What did you do to her?" Harry croaked, and he found he had to bite his tongue to prevent any more tears from coming to his eyes.

Voldemort stared back down at Harry, his expression incomprehensible. He was very tall, especially from the floor, but Harry could not find any fear; he was drowning in the hatred that was burning inside of him for this man.

"I'm not sure that I know what you're talking about," Voldemort responded simply, and this stirred the flame sitting beneath Harry's heart into a roar.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about!" Harry yelled, and he clumsily stood up, making sure to bring the stupid blanket with him. Voldemort's eyes narrowed, slits of fire in his pale, ghostly face.

"Don't get insolent with me, Harry," he replied calmly, but his voice was low and threatening. "I simply did not know that you only cared for the girl. The red-head also seemed quite adamant that I release you."

It took a moment for these words to sink in before Harry could comprehend what the other man had just said. _Ron. _Ron had been with Hermione, he had come to save Harry even after that horrendous argument that they had had. They had come together to save him, and now Harry had lost both of his best friends. He was alone.

"No," he choked out, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Voldemort seemed to find some satisfaction in this; Harry could see it in the other man's face, in the pleasure that he felt in the back of his own head.

"Ah, yes; he seemed to care very much for you, Harry," he went on, his voice drawling, and Harry's heart gave a painful wrench in his chest. "True stupid little Gryffindors, the lot of you. It was very brave of them, to attempt to rescue you by themselves …"

"They were all that I had!" Harry yelled, tears beginning to swim in his eyes again. "They were all that was left, and now you've took that from me, too!"

"Took them?" Voldemort looked genuinely surprised for a moment, and then he started laughing, which only added to Harry's anger. "Foolish boy, you think that I would kill them? And destroy such precious leverage against you?"

Harry could only stand there gaping stupidly at him. They weren't dead? The infamous, terrible, merciless Dark Lord had allowed them to live?

"After all, you seemed to be proving a little … difficult earlier," Voldemort continued, and his eyes roamed unabashedly down Harry's half-naked body again. The boy clutched the blanket a little self-consciously to himself. "In fact, I was quite pleased when I realized exactly who they were. I believe it will give you a little motivation to _behave._"

He stepped a little closer to Harry, and he blushed as he was suddenly reminded of what he had done just before Voldemort had disappeared downstairs. Harry's eyes were drawn irresistibly to the other man's waist, but Voldemort's loose robes concealed anything from view, and Harry yanked his gaze back up before his enemy could notice.

The smirk on Voldemort's lips, however, said that he had definitely noticed the shift in Harry's stare, and the boy felt himself blush even harder.

"Where are they?" Harry said, his voice uneven as he attempted to maintain his dignity. A difficult task, considering that he was standing in front of Voldemort with nothing but a blanket between them.

"Oh, in the cellar," Voldemort responded off-handedly; he appeared to be much more interested in setting Harry's skin aflame with the path of his eyes.

"I—I want to see them," Harry stuttered out. He had to see them, he had to make sure that they were alright and apologize for all of this and promise them that he would make sure they got out of this alive. Voldemort glanced back up at his face at this, raising an eyebrow.

"I hardly think that you're in a position to be making demands of me, Harry," Voldemort cautioned softly, but he seemed to be more amused than annoyed with Harry's cheekiness, so the boy clung to this idea desperately, plowing forward. He decided to take a chance, betting on what he had felt hidden beneath the other man's robes and the confession that Voldemort had let slip before they had been interrupted.

"Actually," Harry said, trying to hide his nerves with cockiness, making his best attempt at a leer, "you'll find that I can be in a great number of … _positions _… if I'm given the proper motivation, as you call it."

There was a long pause in which Harry held his breath, biting his lip, waiting for Voldemort's reaction. There was little change in the other man's expression, but the hunger in his eyes had returned to full intensity, raking goosebumps across Harry's skin.

"Make your offer, then," Voldemort whispered, and the silk on his tongue made Harry shiver, reminding him of the night that he had stroked himself underneath the bedclothes and let the danger in that voice bring him closer to his climax.

"I think you know full well what I'm offering," Harry shot back, and his voice shook a little at this, despite his best attempts at restraint. He told himself that it was his guilt causing the tremor in his throat, that it was his shame at giving himself, his body, so readily to his enemy that made his voice tremble—not the image of Voldemort devouring him whole with his eyes and his hands, bending him over a table and spreading his legs and—

A sudden shock of lust drove through him, and Harry realized too late that his thoughts were no longer private. The burning of Voldemort's eyes left no question as to whom _that_particular emotion had belonged.

The other man stepped forward rapidly and pressed himself against Harry's body, and the boy, trembling, raised his arms to block himself, accidentally dropping the blanket in the process.

"No," Harry blurted quickly, splaying his fingers against Voldemort's chest, and surprised anger suddenly mixed with the lust swirling in his enemy's eyes. "No, wait—I want to … to see them first, beforehand."

Harry knew that he couldn't give himself to this man, this monster,

(_even though you know that you'll enjoy it, oh, _yes_, will you enjoy it_)

without first making sure that his portion of the bargain would be fulfilled. It was far too important to make sure that Ron and Hermione were still alive; after all, Voldemort could be lying to him to manipulate him, to force him to "behave."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, but Harry knew well enough now that the other man had looked into his mind and already seen the determination residing there

(_and the willingness, the abandon that lived there as well_)

and that he saw that an argument would be futile.

"Very well," Voldemort murmured, almost begrudgingly, and he separated his body from Harry's own. Relief coursed through him at the other man's lack of resistance to his proposition, but it was quickly replaced by discomfort as his enemy's gaze flicked appreciatively down Harry's nakedness again. The boy bit his lip and had almost gone to snatch the blanket off the floor when Voldemort waved his wand, and the clothing he had been wearing, dirtied from weeks of camping and clumsy cleaning spells, appeared back on his body.

Voldemort, apparently sensing Harry's confusion at this, chuckled. "You forget so soon, Harry Potter," he murmured, and leaned forward, his eyes softening, his hand coming up to lean against the wall beside Harry's head.

Before Harry even knew what was happening, or was even able to process how close Voldemort's face was now

(_and who knew that there were so many different colors to those eyes, which had seemed so stagnant and red, but they were really all different shades of scarlet and maroon, and even a speckle of gray, like a memory from a lifetime long ago_)

the older man had plunged forward and taken Harry's mouth with his own. His lips were exactly as Harry had imagined them, except, no, even better and softer and warmer—and Harry shuddered into the kiss as Voldemort deepened it, possessive and forceful and hot against Harry's mouth. It was like electricity, surging through his body from his lips, melting his thoughts and his muscles and his heart.

And just as quickly, it was over. Voldemort pulled away from him, but his face remained close to Harry's own, and Harry found it very hard to think clearly when his mouth had just been ravaged so thoroughly and the other man's breath was still brushing his lips.

"The feast of your body is only for me," he hissed, and the words fell close to Harry's mouth, setting his lips on fire. "You are _mine._"

A few moments later, Harry was descending the staircase, Voldemort following closely behind him. Now that he wasn't terrified for his life, it was easier for him to take in his surroundings. The scene below him, however, did nothing to calm his nerves.

A large statue of a serpent seemed to have exploded from the top-half upward, bits and pieces of the marble strewn everywhere; Harry supposed that this might have been part of the noise he had heard. Portraits had been knocked from the walls, and they were mumbling indignantly before they caught sight of Voldemort descending into the hallway, at which they cowered in the corners of their frames. Harry swallowed when he noticed a splattering of bright red blood on the wall.

Aside from the portraits, however, there was no other sign of movement in the hallway. Harry supposed he should feel grateful for this. The less that he saw of the likes of Bellatrix and Snape, both of whom had taken the lives people who had been very close to Harry, the better.

"This way, Harry," Voldemort beckoned him, gesturing to a wooden door. It swung open, revealing a long, steep stone staircase.

Harry bit his lip, frightened for what he might find at the bottom. If this was all Voldemort's idea of a sick joke, if the bodies of his friends were going to be lying at the bottom of the stairwell, now was the time that he would find out.

And then he heard it: the faint, echoing sound of a girl crying, and Ron's soothing voice floating up to the hall.

Heart pounding, Harry rushed past Voldemort, descending the stairway as quickly as he could. He was both surprised and relieved when he did not feel the other man following him, but he knew that his enemy had very easy access to the scene below simply by looking through Harry's eyes.

Pushing this thought out of his mind, Harry found himself at the bottom of the stairwell, and he flew against the bars that stretched from floor to ceiling there, probing the darkness with his eyes.

"Ron! Hermione!" Harry called into the dark, trying to force his eyes to adjust. He saw shapes in the darkness, two of them quite close to him, another one lying on the floor by the back wall.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice, choked with tears, called out from beyond the bars, and he heard his friends scrambling to their feet, their faces coming into the light that flooded from the open door in the hallway above.

"Harry!" Ron cried, and he looked torn between immense relief and guilt.

"Harry," Hermione said again, and she really was crying now as she reached through the bars to grasp his hands, "we thought you were _dead_! We thought that we were too late!"

"I thought that _you _were dead," he responded, and he felt emotion welling in his chest as he saw Hermione's tears flowing down her cheeks. "Worst moment of my life," he added, and laughed shakily.

"Harry," Ron said hesitantly, and he drew closer to the bars as well. "Look, mate, I'm really sorry, I don't know what the hell got into me, Hermione reckons it was that bloody locket—"

"Stop," Harry said, and offered him a tentative smile. "Don't be stupid. I'm just happy that you're here. Well, not _here, _exactly," he added, and Hermione laughed almost hysterically at this, "but that you're alive, and you're okay, and … and how did you guys even get here, anyway?"

Hermione sniffed, and wiped her eyes. "Well, it took me a while to collect myself after Ron left," and here she shot a glare at Ron, who shrank back; apparently Hermione wasn't as forgiving as Harry felt at the moment, "but when I did, I went outside and … and you were gone. And the locket, too." She paused, wiped her eye again. "I knew exactly what had happened, of course—"

"Of _course,_" Ron repeated quietly, rolling his eyes, which Hermione thankfully didn't notice.

"—you had been talking about Voldemort in your dreams and your thoughts all the time, and I knew that you must have taken the locket and that it had possessed you, it was exactly as Dumbledore said."

Harry felt shame winding in his stomach again at his weakness-was he really so predictable?- but he did not let it show on his face. "But I still don't understand. How did you two find each other again?"

"Well, after I left," Ron spoke up, and Harry noticed with a cringe that there was a deep cut under his right eye, "I went back to the Burrow. I know they've been telling everyone that I'm in bed with spattergoit, so it wouldn't be all that suspicious if I turned up. Well, Mum just about threw me right back out when I told her what happened," and he turned bright scarlet here as he tried to evade another vicious glare from Hermione, "but I had hardly been there for half an hour when Dad came running home from the Ministry. He'd been working late that night, but he was all in a frenzy when he got home, said that someone had told him that … _You-Know-Who _had captured you and was holding you at Malfoy Manor."

So that was where they were, then. Harry frowned, wondering who the hell would have known he was here so quickly to go and warn Arthur Weasley.

"So, anyway," Ron continued, "we couldn't call anyone from the Order because the Burrow was being watched, and that would look pretty funny, but Dad didn't want to _do _anything about it! He said that it'd be too dangerous to rush in here without planning, but I got really mad, because we couldn't just bloody wait until the morning to tell everyone in secret, and then figure out what we were going to do to save you. It could have been too late by then."

Harry felt a sudden surge of gratitude for Ron then, despite everything that had happened between them. He was seized by the urge to hug the other boy, but seeing as they were separated by iron bars, he could only stand there, trying to communicate through his eyes how much he appreciated his best friend.

"So then I went back to find Hermione," Ron continued. "She wouldn't speak to me at first, but then I told her what happened. We knew that we had to do something to try and help you. We thought that if we waited any longer than we already had, that it would be … that it would be too late." He swallowed visibly. "And we agreed that it would be best for us to go out trying to help you than sitting around waiting for a plan to fall into our laps."

His friend fell silent, and Harry was not sure how he could put his gratitude into words, how he could ever possibly thank his friends for being so painfully loyal to him.

"Thank you," he said quietly, and then, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be silly, Harry," Hermione said soothingly, and she reached forward to rub his arm again. "None of this is your fault."

_If only you knew, Hermione_, Harry thought, but he didn't say anything.

"But enough of this! Are you okay, Harry? How did you even get down here?" she asked, the concern plain in her face, and then she added softly, "Is he torturing you?"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Torture was certainly one way to describe the feeling of those fingers on his skin. "No," he said quietly. "He's been very … kind, actually." He felt the words, the confession, rising in his throat: _I am his Horcrux_. But they wouldn't come out.

"Kind?" spluttered Ron, and he yelped when Hermione stamped on his foot.

"Just … please, be careful, Harry," Hermione said, her eyes pleading. "He is very manipulative, you must know that by now …"

"Of course I know that," Harry said, and he immediately regretted the snap in his voice when Hermione shrank back, as if slapped. "I mean—I just, I know exactly what he is, I know everything about him, you don't need to—"

His scar flickered suddenly with a pleasant pain.

"_Harry,_" whispered the familiar voice, and Harry jumped, afraid that Voldemort had come down the stairs, before he realized that it was only inside of his mind. "_Harry, I grow impatient …_"

Hermione seemed to know what was happening, for she reached through the bars again and squeezed Harry's hand.

"I have to go," he said hoarsely, and Hermione nodded in understanding. "I'm sorry for getting you into this, it _is _my fault, but I promise, I'm going to get you out of here, I swear."

"It's alright, mate," Ron said, smiling tentatively. "Really. We'll be fine. Just keep yourself alive, okay?"

Harry swallowed, and nodded. The burning in his scar increased a little.

"I'll be back soon," he promised, releasing Hermione's hand.

Harry took a deep, steadying breath. Resigning himself to his fate, he turned on his heel and began to climb the stone stairs, trying to convince himself that he was terrified for what was waiting for him at the top.


	12. II:6

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort. This chapter contains sexual content.

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Rated M for eventual HP/LV slash.

A/N: Thank you everyone who has been reading and reviewing this fic! Again, I hope this chapter turned out alright, because it includes another number of firsts for my writing. If you have a few moments, feel free to drop me a review! Hope you enjoy.

* * *

><p>6.<p>

Dread weighed heavy on Harry's shoulders as he climbed up the steps. He had been so sure before that this was a good idea, that it really couldn't be all that bad, but now he wasn't so certain. He thought of Sirius, of his parents, and wondered guiltily what they would think of him if they knew what he was about to do.

Harry shook his head, trying to shake out the shame that was building in his heart. He needed to focus on the positives of the situation. More importantly than anything else, he had be able to ensure that his friends were safe and unharmed. And besides, it wasn't as though Harry hadn't enjoyed Voldemort's attention earlier that day …

_Here goes nothing._

When Harry reached the top of the stairwell, however, he was surprised to see that Voldemort was not waiting in the hallway for him. A quick glance about the hall confirmed that his enemy was in fact no where to be seen. His stomach gave a nervous lurch; something was not right about this situation. Had Voldemort really left him alone?

A door banged open down the hallway, and the sound nearly made Harry jump out of his skin. It was the same door that the Horcrux had led him through earlier, the one with the long table and the throne. Harry supposed now that this must be a meeting place for Voldemort and his followers. If nothing else came out of this entire situation, at least Harry would know where the Death Eaters held their gatherings when he escaped from Malfoy Manor—and he _would _escape from here, there was no question about that, with Ron and Hermione following closely behind him.

Snape stalked out of the room through the open door, looking arrogant and unpleasant as always. He swept down the hall, his long, billowing robes flapping about him in a way that was almost comically dramatic. Harry looked at him searchingly as he passed, but the cold, nasty glare that his ex-professor threw in his direction showed no evidence that he remembered the mysterious conversation that they had had only an hour ago.

Snape opened the door at the end of the hall, letting in a brief flood of moonlight, and exited the manor. Harry was briefly taken by the idea that he could run after him—Voldemort wasn't here, after all, and if he sneaked out of Snape's sight, he might be able to escape unnoticed.

But then he remembered the friends from whom he had just walked away, the ones who would follow him into the bowels of hell itself. Their survival depended on Harry's presence in Malfoy Manor, as well as his ability to keep Voldemort happy.

_Speak of the devil_, Harry thought bitterly as Voldemort followed Snape out of the door. Harry wondered absentmindedly if Voldemort really could be the devil. And here was Harry, selling his soul to pay for his foolishness.

Voldemort looked livid, and Harry understood then the prickling he had felt in his scar while he had been visiting his friends. Harry didn't think he would ever be able to look at that particular expression of fury in Voldemort's eyes without flinching, even if it wasn't directed toward him.

For a moment, Harry wondered if the other man had perhaps forgotten about their agreement—surely he wouldn't want to do _that _with Harry when he was so angry—but when he turned and spotted Harry waiting by the cellar door, his eyes almost seemed to soften. Soften? Harry blinked, thinking that that couldn't be right, and sure enough, when Harry looked back, Voldemort's eyes were just as sharp and threatening as ever.

There would never be anything _soft _about Lord Voldemort.

"Harry," he said quietly, and he was examining him in that way that made Harry feel exceedingly uncomfortable and short of breath at the same time. Voldemort walked forward, and every step closer that he took seemed to wrap something tight around Harry's lungs, making it harder for him to breathe.

"I expect that you found your friends in an acceptable condition?" Voldemort inquired, almost professional in his manner. Harry supposed that the Dark Lord had never needed to report to someone else on the comfort of his prisoners, and Harry had to fight down a smile at this thought. The physical condition of his best friends was not a laughing matter, and hell if he would give Voldemort that impression.

"So long as they stay that way," Harry responded hesitantly, and then, straightening to his full height, he added on an impulse, "I need your word that they will remain unharmed."

A long moment passed, and for a second, he wondered if he had pushed it too far.

"If I recall correctly," Voldemort said carefully, after Harry's heart had managed to work its way up into his throat, "you asked simply to _see _them. Have I not been true to my word?"

Harry bit his lip, his heart beating hard in his throat. That was, in fact, the way that he had worded the request. "But … you said—"

"Further discussion," Voldemort pressed on, cutting him off, "will be considered after your own word had been fulfilled as well."

His eyes seemed to burn into Harry's own with intense heat, and Harry wondered how someone's gaze could be so tangible. He swallowed, color rising to his face. There was no room for doubt as to what Voldemort was referring. "Yes," he said, his trembling voice betraying the tingling heat that was traveling down his body. "Yes, that's … only fair."

Voldemort seemed pleased, although Harry wasn't sure if it was because of his words or his reaction.

"Return to my chambers." The tone of the command left no room for Harry to wonder what the other man intended to do with him there. The boy flushed, trying to push this thought from his mind before his enemy could see it. Voldemort took advantage of the distraction, however, to reach out and and rest his hand on Harry's hip, his thumb running slow, meaningful circles against his hipbone.

A shudder swept over Harry's body, and he felt Voldemort's amusement, his desire, in the back of his head.

"You will wait for me there. I have some business to attend to first."

Harry swallowed, and his head swam, suddenly dizzy as the other man leaned forward, lips brushing against his ear, and his next words slipped like a hot knife through Harry's muddled thoughts: "_And then I will attend to you_."

* * *

><p>Harry shut the door behind him, still trying to rid himself of the goosebumps that were prickling his flesh. The fire was still crackling in the fireplace, but it did not bring him any warmth. It was hard for him to think, he was so dizzy, and the emotions charging through him were making it even harder for him to form coherent thoughts.<p>

He was frightened, even disgusted, by his attraction to this man. There was no denying it now; he was attracted to Voldemort, another male, and a murderer and maniac to boot. No matter how much he tried to reason with himself, to make himself see whose hands it was that elicited such horrible, wonderful feelings from his skin, that made him sigh and twist and gasp and plead, his body did not seem to want to listen to his mind.

It certainly didn't help when his mind was tainted with Voldemort's own emotions every few moments, Harry thought, and he sighed to himself. This had been a lost cause from the moment that Voldemort had first breathed Harry's name in the darkness of the Grimmauld Place drawing room those many, many weeks ago. With that one word, he had kindled a longing in Harry that he had not recognized until he had let that same voice drive his fingers in his godfather's bedroom a month later.

What chance did he stand against the most powerful wizard in the world, especially one who could manipulate Harry's thoughts as easily someone shaping soft clay?

And what was even worse, Harry had caught himself every once in a while actually feeling _sorry _for the man. Pitying a mass murderer! Voldemort needed pity as much as Harry needed the other man's hands all over him the way they had been recently, which was not at _all_, thank you very much.

Yet, it was a rather easy thing to do, when Harry would allow his mind to wander. The image of the young Tom Riddle crying and cowering before the crowd of Muggle children would flicker into his memory at the most unexpected of times, like when he was helping Hermione set up the protective wards or poking through the grass for some edible mushrooms. And now, Harry found himself thinking of a slightly older Tom Riddle, tilting his head at Harry and smiling, looking beautiful and human and real.

That had been Voldemort, once. It was a strange idea to wrap his head around. Voldemort had smiled, and pushed locks of brown hair out of his gray eyes, and even wept real, painful, human tears. What had happened to that boy? Harry wondered. Did he still exist somewhere? Was he trapped in the locket in a chest, or was he hiding inside of the monster himself?

Harry felt Voldemort's presence drawing closer, and his mouth went a little dry. A strong sense of

(_desire longing fear_)

anticipation coiled hot in his stomach. There would be no more running.

He entered the room silently, like a breath of cold wind, the click and lock of the door following him. The air changed around Harry, electric with power and intensity, reacting to his presence. His eyes, the color of blood, did not scrutinize Harry's too-thin form as they had been all day, but instead seemed to drill into Harry's own, as if reaching into the furthest corners of his soul.

He was drowning in those eyes; they accosted him, paralyzed him, a deer in headlights.

"_Harry_."

Dizzy, and he was drowning, he was captivated, spiraling down a deep, dark hole.

"_Harry_."

The pounding of his heart growing louder, and he was drowning in the bloody sea of those beautiful, terrible eyes as they drew closer to him.

Harry's eyelids fluttered closed, his breathing growing ragged, and when he opened them a moment later, he found that he was somewhere else, in another room, where the lighting was dim and the walls were darker. Voldemort was a dark silhouette in front of him, standing very close to him. Harry might have been curious to observe his surroundings if he hadn't been been taken captive by the sight of the man before him, powerful and tall and holding the threads to his soul like a puppeteer.

"_Didn't I tell you that you would give in to me?_" Voldemort's voice was wrapped in the intimate folds of his mind, and Harry was captivated; he couldn't look away, couldn't think about anything except for the smooth hiss of Voldemort's voice, like cold water hitting hot steel. Voldemort's hands came up to slide through Harry's hair, and the boy leaned shamelessly into his touch as his enemy's fingers slipped down his scalp to the back of his neck, smoothing at the skin there.

"You are still an emotional cesspool, Harry," Voldemort murmured aloud, chuckling, and his fingers slid underneath the collar of Harry's shirt, seeking the flesh between his shoulder blades before sliding back up to skate across Harry's throat. "But now that you are _mine_," and his nail scraped softly against the lobe of Harry's ear, sending a shiver running down his spine, "all of your disgusting, beautiful emotion," and his hands slid smoothly down Harry's back, chasing the shiver down to his tailbone, "will belong only," they slid up Harry's shirt, the cool touch of his fingertips sending flames across his lower back, "to _me._"

And then Voldemort stepped forward and closed the space between them.

Darkness and fingers and palms smoothing all around him, one hand curling in his hair and yanking his head back, and soft lips crashed forward to claim Harry's mouth in a searing kiss. Voldemort really must be after his soul, Harry thought, because it felt as though the other man was extracting it through his mouth with the hot, forceful plunges of his tongue—and he could have it, Harry thought, he could have all of it, everything, as long as Harry could just go on feeling like this forever.

Voldemort whispered something breathlessly against his mouth, and Harry felt cool air wash over his back, realizing distantly that his clothes had vanished again. But there was no room for shame inside of him right now—only raw, violent need, only sensation, and the craving for those hot, fleeting touches on his skin.

And then strong arms reached out and pulled him forward, pressing his naked body across the length of Voldemort's own. The cloth of the other man's robes was surprisingly smooth, almost silky, and hands ran down Harry's sides to his hips and pulled them roughly against—"Oh," Harry breathed, because there it was, pressing hard into his stomach, and then, "_Oh_," because his fingers ran gently to Harry's backside, playing across the sensitive skin just above it, and why had no one ever touched him there?

He knew, vaguely, what other men did together like this, but he had never thought about it in much detail in the past. But now, Harry was surprised to find himself _craving _it, needing Voldemort's fingers to find the place they had found earlier, to spread him apart and make him vulnerable. He wanted the calm, cool, collected Dark Lord to lose control, to discover how good it felt to give in to his emotion. He wanted to be on all fours underneath him, feeling Voldemort's loss of restraint pounding through his body.

The fingers gripped his hips suddenly, bruising in their force. He felt Voldemort flowing through his mind, soaking in his arousal, drinking up his thoughts, even as he drank in Harry's skin with his fingers, tracing patterns on his lower back and leaving fire in their wake.

"_Harry,_" Voldemort breathed, and he pushed Harry backward. For a moment, the boy thought with a surge of panic that he was going to fall flat on the floor—but then a soft mattress met with the back of his thighs, and he tumbled backward onto it, naked and panting and on _Voldemort's bed_.

The man simply stood above him for a moment, almost triumphant, bathing Harry in the heated pools of his red eyes. Harry began to squirm under the gaze, and he was painfully aware of how hard he was, even after having come already once today.

A few long seconds passed before Voldemort spoke, almost gentle, coaxing, but a command nonetheless. "Spread yourself."

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth (_and this should be humiliating, not arousing_, cried a disgusted part of himself, but his erection seemed to pay it no mind) Harry brought his feet onto the bed, bending his knees, and spread his thighs slowly. He had never felt so vulnerable in his entire life, sitting in this unknown room, nothing but the cool, empty air around him, everything just hanging _open _there like that. And Voldemort was simply standing there, staring, practically fucking him with his eyes. A blush rose to his cheeks, and his enemy laughed softly.

"You'll be wishing that you can spread them even wider when I'm through with you, Harry; don't you worry."

He felt himself throbbing even harder at this, and he shut his eyes to try to block out that penetrating gaze—_well why don't you just get on with it, then?—_but instead of the feeling of the other man's body on top of him, Harry only heard a quiet spell, murmured under Voldemort's breath.

A moment later, a finger began to skim across Harry's collarbone, but there was something incredibly different about this touch: everywhere that it travelled, hot, tingling sparks seemed to course through his skin down his body, descending straight to his bobbing cock. Harry wasn't sure if it was the effects of the spell or simply of Voldemort's power over him, but it made him twist across the sheets (which were black, he noticed that now, and cool against his cheek), breath catching in his throat as he tried to suppress a groan.

"I once told you," he heard Voldemort saying from directly above him as that finger started the long, torturous journey across his chest, "that you must direct your emotions for them to be of any use."

The finger found a nipple and twisted it, sending an explosion of sensation across his torso. Harry's body seized up spectacularly, fingers clenching and unclenching at the sheets of their own accord, but he bit his lip with extraordinary self-control, barely letting a whimper escape from his throat.

"I must admit that I was quite mistaken to assume that your emotions could not be directed usefully," Voldemort went on, the silk of his voice draping over Harry's body like another magic, one that had followed him through his dreams and nightmares for many months now. The finger began to trace back and forth across his stomach, slow and amazing and tantalizing, and every movement seemed to send a lick of sensation up his throbbing erection.

"I see now that we will simply have to direct them," and his finger dragged a hot, liquid line below his belly button, and now Harry really did whimper, keening, unable to prevent his back from arching into the touch, "to _me_."

The finger swirled, agonizingly slow, around the base of his erection, and then, finally, _finally_, it glided featherlight up the underside of his cock, tracing the vein there. Harry managed to prevent himself from crying out at the sensation, it was so _intense_, but he could not stop a low, breathy moan from passing between his lips.

"Please," he breathed desperately, eyes squeezed shut as the fingertip traced around the head of his cock. "_Please_." When he opened his eyes, he found that the other man was leaning very close over his body, right between his legs and so close to his skin, and he was dizzy with the urge to pull the man's body against his own. And then Voldemort wrapped his entire hand around him and _stroked_, and Harry couldn't help another strangled moan from escaping.

This seemed to break something in the other man. A hot surge of lust pulsed through Harry's mind, much darker and more dangerous than his own, and the space between them suddenly vanished, Voldemort's body pressed hard against him. Those soft lips found his mouth again, just as his hands found Harry's thighs, spreading them even wider and running slowly up the muscle there. Harry groaned against the other man's mouth at the loss of fingers on his cock, but it immediately turned into a different sort of noise as those same fingers pressed against the sensitive skin just above his entrance, teasing.

Harry bucked his hips against the hand, trying to get it to go _lower._ He felt Voldemort's amusement, a flame inside his head, and when the other man complied, Harry thought that his brain might just melt from all of the heat pulsing through it. Voldemort's fingers were hot and slick as they had been earlier that day, and they traced the puckered skin of his entrance, pressing gently but not quite pushing inside. Harry wondered distractedly if this was all just some horrible plan to make Harry go insane, because that must be exactly what Voldemort was trying to do, there was no other explanation for it, and there was certainly no other way that anyone could make Harry feel this way otherwise.

"_Please_," he ground out, pressing his hips back against the man's touch, and Voldemort finally, finally yielded, pushing in gently only to pull back out again. Harry gave a frustrated groan, and he heard the other man chuckling softly over him, the sound laced with lust, and then the finger began to slide all the way inside of him, agonizingly slow, and then back out, building up a slow, teasing rhythm.

Many long moments passed as Voldemort continued this torture, and Harry found that as another two slick fingers joined the first he wanted to be _filled_ with this feeling, that it wasn't painful as he had once imagined it would be, but _incredible_, an entirely different level of sensation than the ones he used to tug amateurishly from his cock in his bed at night.

And then Voldemort's fingers pushed in further, and any remaining coherent thoughts that had been flitting through Harry's mind exploded in the hot heady fireworks that wracked his body. Voldemort paused in his assault, and Harry felt the other man's satisfaction in the back of his head, before he pulled his fingers out and roughly thrust them back in, hitting that_place _inside of him with every single plunge of his fingers.

He had never been so hard in his entire life, he was sure of it, but it wasn't enough, he had to be _filled_, he had to make Voldemort lose his god damn patience and control. The man's fingers pounded up against his prostate again, and Harry threw back his head, his hands twisting in the sheets, and if need had a sound, it would have been the very one that was torn from Harry's lips at that moment.

Voldemort growled then, and the fingers withdrew from inside of him, leaving him empty and _needing. _Harry raised himself to his elbows, and he was about to turn himself onto his belly when Voldemort's hand came up grabbed his arm, stopping him.

"You will look at me while I take you," he said, his eyes a burning wildfire in the darkness of the room, and Harry swallowed, nodded, trembling with anticipation.

The boy lay himself down on his back again. He spread his legs wider, trying to do anything to get the other man to hurry up and get _inside _of him. Voldemort let out a strangled noise again—and Harry wasn't sure if it was from the sight of him spreading his legs or from the dirty thoughts that were tumbling through his head, one after the other—and he pressed Harry down with one hand, grabbing hold of one of his heels with the other and throwing it over his shoulder. Harry's other foot followed suit, and _god, _how could a person ever be so completely exposed, and shouldn't he be terrified of this feeling?

The man leaned forward and pressed his lips against Harry's

(_and he was imagining the tenderness there, because the Dark Lord has no tenderness left in him for anyone, least of all Harry Potter_)

and then he murmured another spell, one Harry didn't recognize. The effects were immediate: Harry felt himself loosen and relax, something hot and wet unfurling inside of him down_there_, spreading him pleasantly. He whimpered, knew what was coming next, his body trembling with need.

Something much larger and hotter than Voldemort's fingers pressed against his entrance then, and Harry _moaned_, pressing back, and _please_, why was he taking so god damn long to do everything? He remembered that this was all an intricate mission to melt his brain, but he didn't even care, he could be a slop of mashed potatoes for the next ten years as long as Voldemort kept doing _this _to him.

Then, in one, smooth thrust, the other man was inside of him, and Harry's final thought was _mission success_ before he forgot how to think.

His enemy was finished teasing him. Voldemort quickly built up a steady rhythm, and Harry was breathing raggedly underneath him, his body on sensory overload, and nothing had ever felt so right and wrong at the same time as this powerful, horrible man dissolving him to a moaning, writhing pool of sensation beneath him. It was a whirlpool of paradoxes, this person that was so different from him and yet so the same, the world's most terrible man and the wizarding world's golden boy, but there was no where else for them to be but right here, against each other, inside of each other.

"_Harry_," the other man whispered, and he was so wrapped up inside of Harry that the boy could no longer tell if he was speaking through his lips or through his mind.

And then Voldemort began to hit that spot inside of him with every single thrust, sending those sparks travelling right back up his body all the way to Harry's brain, liquefying it. Harry wondered if he could come without even being touched, if pure bodily sensation could simply send him over the edge.

"_Harry,_" again, and his name sounded so intimate, the same as it had in the kitchen that night, and how had he not seen it then? "_Look at me_."

Harry looked up. He saw the cruel eyes of his enemy staring back at him, but he also the soft ones of Tom Riddle, of the man within the monster. He was drowning in those eyes, then, just as he was drowning in the thrusts of Voldemort's hips, it was all swirling together to consume him—red and gray and lust and fire—and then he was suddenly looking _through _those eyes, down at himself, breathing hard and desperate beneath his own fingers, and, oh, god, he could _feel_ the clenching of his own slick inner walls around his arousal, just as he could feel Voldemort pounding inside of him, hitting that spot over and over and over again—

(_we are one and the same, Harry Potter, and this is how it's meant to be, in the end: together_)

and then Harry was back in his own body and coming violently, fire and heat and pleasure engulfing him, finding every single nerve that he had and overwhelming it. It seemed to go on forever, this pleasure, and he felt Voldemort's release as well, hot and hard inside of him, where he was meant to be, where he always had been.

Slowly, Harry became aware of how hard he was breathing, and the rapid beating of his pulse. The cool touch of the air around him processed in his arms, his legs, which had previously only been aware of the hot heat of pleasure. Voldemort's body was draped over his own, his arms leaning beside Harry's head, and the boy noticed with no small amount of satisfaction that the other man was breathing heavily as well. He noticed for the first time that Voldemort hadn't removed his robes over the entire course of the incident—perhaps he had thought it would make him too vulnerable—but Harry smirked at this, blinking tiredly up at the ceiling and wondering at how hypocritical the other man could be.

After all, just as Voldemort had chastised him many times over the past few months, he couldn't hide from himself.


	13. III:1

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort.

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Rated M for eventual HP/LV slash.

A/N: Thank you so much again to everyone who has left me reviews! Reading them makes me so happy. I hope you all enjoy this next chapter!

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><p>PART III: THE LEAP<p>

* * *

><p>1.<p>

The boy's chest moved slowly up and down, heavy and sluggish with sleep. His eyelids twitched a little, the green orbs beneath jumping back and forth rapidly, lost in his dreams.

Voldemort sat on the bed, unable to take his own eyes off of the naked body in front of him.

He had watched him sleep before, of course, but that had been from behind Harry's own eyes. At the time, it had brought little more than disgust at the boy's weakness—Voldemort himself preferred to sleep as little as possible, while Harry not only seemed to look forward to it but would often indulge in the most carnal of fantasies when his mind drifted into his dreams. Disgusting, weak little boy; but now that he was faced with the real thing, with the rise and fall of Harry's slender chest, the gentle parting of his moist lips, Voldemort found that he could not look away.

The man's pale, spindly fingers reached forward to brush against the boy's cheek, which had a few minutes ago burned with the intense emotion for which Voldemort had once so loathed him. But now he was engrossed in it, fascinated by it—in fact, he thirsted to shape it and mold it and manipulate it. He had deprived himself of emotion and passion for so many years, and now, looking at this creature that was almost the mirror image of his younger body, whose skin and thoughts and dreams were all made up of the feelings of which Tom Riddle had so strived to rid himself—it was disconcerting, like walking through a familiar door into an unfamiliar room.

And it was addicting.

The lanky boy sprawled naked across his bed shivered, and without thinking, Voldemort summoned a blanket, spreading it over him. He caught himself just as he pulled the blanket up to the boy's chin, and the same confusion that had struck him upon giving the brat a blanket earlier that day was back again, making him frown. The knowledge of what he was doing, what he had already done

(_he had been so gentle with the boy in his bed that you'd think Harry might have shattered if Voldemort had kissed him too hard_)

should have been sickening to him, but more and more often he found himself overcome by this unnatural urge to see the boy safe and comfortable.

It's because of the Horcrux, he told himself, smoothing his hand against the boy's forehead where the famous lightning scar marked his smooth, unblemished skin. There was no other explanation for it. In many ways, the safety of the boy sleeping before him was as important as his own, now; he must be protected and guarded as carefully as Voldemort would protect his own body. He was reminded briefly that he would not even have this body if Harry had not given it to him, that this boy's blood ran through his veins, keeping him alive.

_What is happening to me_? Voldemort wondered, still unable to look away from the captivating sight of Harry Potter sleeping. Lust, he could deal with—it could be translated into power, control. But how does one manipulate this very strange feeling of … dare he call it _affection_, that he was beginning to feel for the boy?

A soft, hesitant knock on the door brought the man out of his reverie, and he stood up abruptly, shaking himself of the unfamiliar sensation creeping up his body. He knew that it was Severus standing on the other side of the door, and he'd better be bringing good news. For once, Voldemort would welcome the interruption.

* * *

><p>It was the prickling in his forehead that brought Harry to again.<p>

He fought it for a little while—after all, he was just so warm and comfortable—but after a few moments, the dull burning in his scar was too sharp for him to fall back into the lull of sleep. Yawning, Harry opened his eyes.

The comfort of darkness greeted him like an old friend, and for a moment, Harry thought that he was back in the tent. He wondered briefly if it was Ron's snores that had tugged him out of his sleep, but a few seconds of strained listening told him that the room was decidedly absent of snoring.

And then, another sharp pain in his forehead—as well as somewhere else, markedly lower on his body—brought a flood of memories as well as a creeping blush back to him.

"Oh," he said stupidly into the darkness, shifting awkwardly where he lay on the bed, but no one answered him. He was alone.

Blinking, Harry sat up and realized that his glasses had disappeared along with Voldemort. Not to mention a blanket had somehow found its way on top of him. When did _that _happen? And that certainly couldn't have been Voldemort, because there was no way that Harry could ever see the Dark Lord draping a blanket to keep his nemesis warm in his bed after … doing _that_.

But then again, Harry didn't think that he could have ever imagined the Dark Lord doing _that _with anyone anyway, nevermind that he would be so very good at it … Harry found himself blushing even harder, and he was very grateful for the cover of darkness, should anyone intrude on him now.

Harry rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and tried to remember how long he had been resting. He could not even remember falling asleep, but here he was, feeling rested and unable to recall how this blanket had come to find its way atop his body. Also, he felt much … cleaner than he might have expected to be, given the messiness of what they had done together.

Was this Voldemort's work as well? For a moment, Harry felt moderately guilty that he _had _fallen asleep while the other man had cleaned and tended to him, but then decided he would not have known how to react should he have been awake to witness the spectacle. It was a very confusing thing to try to hate someone who treated you so gently after making you nearly pass out with pleasure.

The boy blinked a few times, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, sitting up a little further.

The bed in which he had slept was rather large, Harry noticed, much larger than any other bed he'd ever seen. He reckoned that this made sense—he shouldn't have expected the Dark Lord of the wizarding world to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs, after all—but why did Voldemort need such a _large _bed, anyway? Had he ever invited anyone else to share it with him? This made perfect sense, of course, because it entirely explained how his enemy had honed his … abilities; but for some reason this made Harry uncomfortable in a very unpleasant way, thinking about the Dark Lord with other lovers, gently teasing them and coaxing them to climax as he had just done to Harry.

_Lovers_? Harry thought, momentarily disgusted with himself. Lord Voldemort does not take lovers. He knows nothing of love; he had made that abundantly clear.

This was all so damn confusing.

Sighing, Harry glanced about blindly, hoping to spot his glasses lying around somewhere. He noticed the blurry shape of a nightstand to the left of the bed and figured that that was a good place to begin searching. Shedding his blanket and crawling across the bed, he was relieved to find his glasses sitting there, as well as his clothes, which were folded neatly beneath them.

A few minutes later, Harry stood, dressed and awkward, in the Dark Lord's bedroom.

He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now. Voldemort had left him alone here; did he expect Harry to stay? And even if he didn't, Harry did not think that it would be wise to wander about Malfoy Manor without his wand. Another run-in with Bellatrix, even if she had promised Voldemort that she would not injure him, was not a pleasant prospect.

And where was his wand, anyway? Perhaps this was as good a time as ever to look around for it, while he was left alone in Voldemort's chambers. He might not have another opportunity like this anytime soon, and no matter how wonderful his enemy may make him feel in the dark, he absolutely needed to remember his friends, and the students at Hogwarts, and the Weasleys, and everyone else who was counting on him to end this horrible war.

He still needed to escape from this place, preferably alive, and he could not let Voldemort's fingers and lips and touches make him forget that.

Harry walked tentatively around the room, as if expecting to be ambushed at any moment, taking in his surroundings. He was still barefoot, but there was a plush, dark green rug covering the cold stone floor. A large, marble chest sat at the foot of the bed, which was clearly locked by magic, as Harry could not open it with his hands. There was some kind of portrait or mirror hanging on the wall that was covered by a thick tarp, but Harry did not bother to try to find out what was underneath. Otherwise, as far as Harry could see, there was nothing else of interest in the room, nothing else hanging on the walls—except, wait, what was that?

Harry walked over to the other side of Voldemort's bed, still careful in his step, afraid he might tread upon some sort of trap. He was relieved to reach the corner of the room without anything else happening, except for another burst of pain in his scar—but wasn't that usual by now? Harry was just happy at this point that the other man was too busy directing_other _emotions at Harry to find any anger for the Boy Who Shared His Bed.

Harry shook his head again. He really needed to stop thinking like this, or he might blush so long and hard that it would never go away.

He turned his interest instead to a small glimmering cross on the wall, about level with Harry's face. Voldemort had never struck Harry to be particularly religious; in fact, he had always thought that Christianity was more of a Muggle religion, anyway, and he found it hard to believe the Voldemort would celebrate something that was so heavily associated with the Muggle world.

Harry leaned toward the wall, frowning. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't really a cross at all, but four golden snakes, thin as pencils, wrapped around each other to form a lowercase "t" on the wall. Harry stared, feeling a mixture of triumph and anticipation. The other man clearly had an affinity for snakes to protect his keepsakes, and Harry could not blame him: until today, Voldemort had thought himself to be the last speaker of Parseltongue in the world.

But what could Voldemort be hiding? What would happen if he instructed the snakes to open? Furthermore, what would happen if he _didn't_, if he simply walked away from this peculiar cross on the wall? Could he live with himself when potentially important knowledge may hide within these snakes, and he had passed up an opportunity to use that information to his advantage?

Harry took a deep, steadying breath. Staring into the miniscule eyes of one of the snakes, he concentrated hard and heard himself sigh in Parseltongue:

"_Reveal to me your secrets_."

Four pairs of snake eyes glowed red in the darkness, and then they began to slither along the wall, forming a circle four snakes long. They rotated once along the stone wall like this before all of their scales turned bright red, matching the color of their eyes, and then slowly sunk into the stone.

Harry watched, eyes wide, as the wall began to split in the center of the circle. Two doors began to form, etching themselves out of previously smooth stone. Slowly, silently, the doors began to swing toward him, opening, and they revealed a small alcove.

Harry recognized what was inside immediately, but he was still surprised by its presence here, in Voldemort's lair. The last time he had seen one was in Dumbledore's office, when he and his former Headmaster had used it multiple times last year to explore the memories of others to gain knowledge of Voldemort's past life. But this particular Pensieve, very similar to Dumbledore's, was hiding in an alcove in Voldemort's bedroom.

What memories could Voldemort want to hide in here, locked away by miniature snakes that would only respond to Parseltongue?

Harry stared at it, transfixed by the white, misty memories swirling in a pool at its surface. Dumbledore had been so concerned with learning about Voldemort's past. He had spent many years of his life tracking down those who had known the young Tom Riddle, and then he had bribed and sometimes even coerced memories out of them so that Dumbledore could view them for himself.

What memories were so important that the Dark Lord did not even feel safe walking around with them in his mind? Especially when the only person with even a remote chance of access to Voldemort's mind was a teenage boy.

Harry blinked. Voldemort wanted to hide memories from _him_?

The decision was made for Harry before he could even think twice about it. He would need to hurry, lest Voldemort returned from wherever he had disappeared to. Harry would enter the memory, stay just long enough to figure out what it was about, and then exit the Pensieve before Voldemort could catch him meddling in his mind.

Swallowing his fear, Harry stepped into the alcove, grabbed both sides of the stone basin, and plunged his head into the transparent surface of Voldemort's thoughts.

Harry was falling through nothingness, his body tumbling in the air, and it had been so long since he had last done this that he felt panic rising in his throat. Before it had time to get the better of him, however, Harry's feet landed on soft, damp green grass.

Cool, night air washed over his skin, and Harry shivered, rubbing at his arms. He looked about him, and realized with a sinking feeling that he knew exactly where he was. He had been here twice before, but both times the property had been in a much worse state of decay than it was currently. A sloping, green lawn that could give Uncle Vernon's a run for its money led up to a large, looming manor, old and handsome and beautiful.

And there: a boy, not much younger than Harry, who was just as handsome as the house standing before him. Although Harry had met him once before in the Chamber of Secrets, and again as the misty memory from the locket, it still gave him a jolt of shock to see Tom Riddle standing before him looking as real and tangible as Harry was.

There were no blurry edges here in the Pensieve. Tom Riddle was all smooth lines and hard edges and a slender, intangible beauty, impossible to look away from.

Tom was staring at the house with an unreadable expression in his eyes, which were glimmering silver in the moonlight. Harry looked closer, and he saw that the boy in front of him looked very worried, even a little frightened, alone in the dark. Harry was struck by the urge to reach out and touch him, but he knew from his previous experiences with the Pensieve that the memory would not feel his fingers.

He tried to conjure the same disgust he had felt upon seeing this boy in Dumbledore's memories last year, but that seemed like an entirely different person now. The young man standing in front of Harry right now had reached out and touched Harry's lips and called him beautiful only hours before.

Tom reached into the pocket of his robe, where Harry knew he must be keeping his wand, and began to walk forward across the lawn, silent and determined. Harry realized halfway to the front door of the manor that he had been mimicking Tom's silent, sneaking step, being careful not to step on anything that might make noise, even though he knew no one could hear him.

Tom ascended the steps to the front door, lifted his hand, and pressed the doorbell.

A loud, ringing gong echoed from within the house and Harry heard the boy beside him breathe in sharply. For all his calm control over his emotions, Harry could still see that Tom was very nervous.

"Who would be calling this late, anyhow?" a voice drifted from inside, before the door opened and an elderly man dressed in expensive, old-fashioned Muggle clothes frowned at Tom from inside the hallway.

They stared at each other for a few moments before the elderly man's eyes widened, his frown deepening. "Tom?" he croaked, and he glanced behind him, clearly confused. "But … you were just upstairs."

Tom returned the frown, and Harry saw a flash of fear on his face again. Voldemort was nervous, once; how was this so hard to believe? "I wish to speak with Tom Riddle."

The elderly man gaped at him. "But … you're not …?"

"I believe that he is my father," Tom pressed on. He was keeping his voice remarkably steady for the nerves that Harry recognized passing along his face.

A brief flash of alarm flickered across the elderly man's features, but it was quickly replaced by wariness. "Well … that is quite unexpected. Do come in."

The door swung wider, and Tom followed the man inside, Harry hurrying to bring up the rear before the door could close behind them. He remembered an old man who would limp into this foyer many years later, creaking up the stairs with a cane, and he shuddered.

There was no dust coating the stairs now, though, nor any cobwebs to be seen. The manor reeked of Muggle royalty, with expensive, static paintings lining the walls, elaborate rugs and handsome furniture making the house look like something out of a museum.

Tom and his grandfather rounded onto the landing, Harry close behind. They turned to the right, where Harry could hear pleasant laughter floating out of the open door at the end of the hall. Tom's hand was still in his pocket.

"Thomas, it seems as though you have a visitor," said the elderly man as they entered the room. He threw a distrustful glance toward the boy who would become Voldemort, and did not ask him to sit down. Harry felt his own anger flare up at this old man. What had Tom done to them to deserve such unpleasant treatment?

"Ah … and you are?" The older man sitting by the fireplace could have been Voldemort at age forty had he not been forced to wear a different body today. He was just as pale and slender as Tom had been at age sixteen, although his hair was graying slightly by the ears. His silver eyes were just as cold and calculating as Tom's, however; there was as much similarity in their eyes as there would be between Harry's and his own mother's.

"I am your son," Tom introduced himself, and Harry could hear his confidence wavering beneath the cold stares of three pairs of eyes. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."

An elderly woman sitting beside Tom's father gave a great gasp, looking back and forth between the older Tom and the one standing next to Harry. "Thomas, who is this whelp? You have a son?"

The older Tom sitting by the fire looked very pale. "I have no son, mother," he responded coldly, glaring at the teenager standing in the doorway.

"I am your son," Tom repeated, and Harry could see that he was collecting his courage, unsure if his father recognized him. He added, almost hopefully, "My mother is Merope Gaunt."

If Tom's father had had any color remaining in his face, it had completely drained away now. His mother was looking at her son inquiringly, still very shocked, and Harry could feel anger rolling off of the teenager standing beside him in waves: his father had not told his family about Merope.

"Merope was a hideous monstrosity," the older man spat, his words cold and biting, and he turned to his mother. "Unusual, a tramp, undeserving of the Riddle lineage, and I'm sure that her _spawn_"—he shot a particularly nasty look in Tom's direction at this—"is just as unusual. I left her as soon as I saw her for what she was: a _freak_."

Harry was reminded sickeningly of his Aunt Petunia speaking of his own mother the same way, and he felt an awful loathing for this rich, Muggle man sitting in front of him, with his expensive Muggle clothing and his rich Muggle parents, living a luxurious Muggle life while his son had suffered in an orphanage for his entire childhood.

"She _loved _you," Tom said, his voice breaking on the word, and Harry wasn't sure if he had ever said it before—or would ever say it again, for that matter. "They told me she did, and you abandoned her to give birth to your _spawn _in a dingy Muggle orphanage. She died an hour later."

"Who is this Merope, Thomas?" the man's mother asked, just as the elderly father exclaimed, "What in the devil's name is a _Muggle_?"

"It doesn't matter," Tom's father said, standing up, glaring at his son. "I'm not sure what madness possessed me, but I left her and have not thought on her since."

"How could you?" Tom yelled, his face twisting with restrained fury. His hand had not left his pocket.

"I think we should call the police, Thomas," said the elderly woman, looking warily at the teenager in his strange robes wearing her son's face. "I expect that the boy is a lunatic, just as you say his mother was."

And then Tom's father opened his mouth and laughed, cold and uncaring, and something seemed to crack in the boy. Harry knew what would happen next because Dumbledore had already told him, but it still did not prepare him for the cold reality of it happening before his face.

Tom's wand came out and he spoke the words, filling the room with bright, green light. Harry flinched, but he was unable to tear his eyes away from the family as they fell to the ground, the life leaving their eyes even before they had slumped to the floor. They didn't even have time to scream.

Harry supposed he would never get used to seeing Voldemort kill people, no matter how often it may haunt his dreams and thoughts.

A long moment passed, in which both Tom and Harry stared silently at the bodies on the floor. Harry was only able to tear his eyes away from the gruesome sight when the sound of something _plinking_ onto the wooden floor surprised him. Tom's wand had fallen from his trembling fingers, and Harry saw that he was shaking, his face a turmoil of anger and shock and grief. He was staring into the lifeless eyes of his father, whom he had just murdered, and Harry saw sixteen years worth of misery there, of hope that his father would rescue him from his orphanage, and then that his father was a respectable wizard as well, that his father would be happy to be reunited with him at last.

A horrible sound, like that of an injured animal, escaped from Tom's lips, and he slumped against the wall, his thin body still shaking. Harry was astonished to see that tears were rolling down his pale cheeks. Voldemort sat there, having just murdered his parents, and he was _weeping_.

An explosion of pain erupted in his forehead, and for a moment, Harry thought wildly that it was the anger of the boy sitting in front of him right now that was affecting his scar. But then he remembered quickly that this was only a memory, that the events in a Pensieve could not affect the viewer, and he felt his heart leap into his throat. This rage was Voldemort's, there was no question about that.

The memory began to fade around him, Tom Riddle's sobs becoming softer in the mist. Harry began to feel alarmed as the pain in his forehead intensified—what on earth could Voldemort be so angry about?—but the thought fell away when the bedroom materialized around him again, replaced by a thrill of horror.

Voldemort was standing in front of him, red eyes alight with rage. Harry couldn't remember how to breathe.

"You've always had quite the penchant for prying your little Gryffindor fingers where they don't belong, haven't you, Harry?" Voldemort hissed, cornering him against the wall. Harry's heart beat rapidly against his chest, terror coursing through him.

"I—I don't—"

"I will not tolerate you snooping about my mind!" Voldemort snarled. "No one else was meant to know that, ever! My father was a piece of Muggle filth. They all are, every last one of them, entirely unworthy of the same air that true wizards breathe!"

There was a flash of pain in his eyes then, and Harry suddenly saw the sixteen-year-old boy who had cried on the floor after turning his wand against his father, who would not accept him for the wizard that he was.

"Voldemort," Harry said, his voice shaking. He reached out a tentative hand and touched the other man's face, understanding, and he ignored the wild bewilderment in his enemy's eyes. "Tom."

"_Do not call me that name!_" Voldemort hissed, and a cold hand clamped around Harry's throat, hard enough to pin him to the wall, but not quite firm enough to cut off his air supply. Harry's hand fell from his enemy's face, grasping lamely at Voldemort's wrist. "A Muggle name, my father's name—I have spent my entire life eliminating my association with him!"

"You can't run from yourself, Tom," Harry choked out. Voldemort's eyes flared with blatant fury, and his fingers tightened around Harry's throat. This was it; he had ruined everything, he was going to die now, Voldemort would kill him because he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut. What was he thinking? It was not his responsibility to coddle the Dark Lord, to redeem his split soul—it was his job to _kill _him.

Horcrux or no, Voldemort was going to kill him now; he had gone too far.

The fingers about his throat loosened suddenly, and Voldemort recoiled, the anger draining from his face. His hand fell limply to Harry's shoulder, and the boy gave a grateful gasp of air, even as he stared into Voldemort's face warily, confused by the sudden change in his demeanor.

"I will not harm you, Harry," Voldemort said softly, and he seemed to be making a great effort to remain calm. He was looking at Harry strangely again. "You are curious to a fault. I will not hold this against you, but you will never deliberately go out of your way to intrude on my thoughts again."

_Kind of hard when we share the same brain, isn't it_? Harry thought to himself, but, grateful for the fact that he was still breathing, he merely stood silent, gasping for breath and glaring.

Voldemort released him, stepping back.

"You will never mention it again," he said, the words clearly a command, and Harry nodded, still having difficulty breathing.

"I am glad to see that you are decent," the other man continued coldly, eyes flickering appraisingly up Harry's body. Despite himself, he felt a blush rise to his cheeks again, reminded of what they had just done. Thankfully, Voldemort ignored this. "I'm afraid you will need to postpone your beauty sleep. We are leaving Malfoy Manor. As you may have observed from the arrival of your friends, this location is no longer secure."

Harry blinked, staring at him. "Leaving?" he repeated, his voice still a little hoarse, and he reached up to rub his throat, the skin tender beneath his fingertips. "Where are we going?"

"That is no concern of yours," said Voldemort, and he yanked Harry away from the wall, flicking his wand and enclosing the Pensieve once more behind the doors. "We leave straightaway. You are to remain at my side. My followers have been instructed not to attack you."

_Goody_. Nothing like a bunch of Death Eaters to get your lungs pumping again.

Harry swallowed and followed the older man through a door, which led into the drawing room with the fireplace and the armchairs. The chest in which Voldemort had placed the locket was gone.

"But … what about Ron and Hermione?" Harry asked, his voice small. Any leverage that he had gained over the course of the evening had been destroyed by his stupidity, and he was very afraid to see what would happen to his friends now that he had ruined Voldemort's temporary fascination with him.

Voldemort paused and turned to look back at him curiously. "You certainly have some gall, Harry Potter," the older man said, and Harry was surprised to hear him chuckle. He held his breath, waiting for the other man's response. "They will accompany us, if only so that they may continue to provide you with motivation. If you behave, perhaps I will allow you to visit them."

He gave Harry a suggestive glance at this, and Harry looked away abruptly. The other man's fascination had not been so temporary after all, then. An unwelcome heat pooled in his stomach from the look in the Dark Lord's eyes, and Harry stared down shamefully, even as he tried to suppress the glee that leapt through him at these words—Voldemort would not harm them, they would still be safe, Harry would still be able to see them. Everything was not yet lost.

"That is conditional, however," Voldemort continued, his fingers brushing Harry's chin, gently coaxing him to look him in the eye, "upon your future behavior. You would do well to keep this in mind."

Harry swallowed, trying to look unaffected at these words, but his thoughts betrayed him, images of the Dark Lord thrusting inside of him flashing unbidden before his eyes. _It's all for Ron and Hermione_, he told himself, even as his traitorous body obviously anticipated the next time that the other man would have his way with him.

Heat pulsed through Voldemort's fingers for a moment, and Harry shuddered. The other man looked smugly back at him before removing his hand and turning away.

"Come," said Voldemort, and he opened the door out of the drawing room, walking out into the hallway. Harry took a deep breath, preparing himself, and followed him.


	14. III:2

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort.

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Rated M for HP/LV slash.

A/N: Hey everyone! I'm so sorry for the wait for this next update; I've been totally swamped by midterms and reporting assignments over the past week. Thank you everyone who's been reading and reviewing! I love reading what you all have to say. Also, thank you to anyone who's been pointing out grammatical errors and typos. I don't have a beta or anything, and even though I read through each chapter three or four times before publishing it, I don't always catch all my mistakes.

I hope you like this next chapter; it was giving me a bit of a hard time, and I'm not completely happy with it, but I think it turned out alright. Shit's about to go down soon, so stay tuned and happy reading! :)

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><p>2.<p>

A sea of black filled the hallway at the bottom of the stairs.

Waves of unrest were rolling across the men and women waiting there, a living ocean of fear. Harry's stomach twisted with anger and hatred as dozens of restless faces turned in his direction, many of which he recognized from his own encounters with Death Eaters at the Ministry of Magic in his fifth year and last year at Hogwarts.

Harry and Voldemort stood there at the top of the stairs for a long moment. Recognition and then shock murmured through the crowd of Death Eaters as eyes found the scar on Harry's forehead. He felt very aware of his missing wand.

"My friends," Voldemort began, but a loud noise at the end of the hallway interrupted him, abruptly diverting everyone's attention to the front door.

Someone burst into the manor, stumbling down the hall. Many of the Death Eaters turned to look at the newcomer, some jeering, others glaring, as the man hurried to join the ranks. He was a portly man with beady eyes, and when he caught sight of Harry, his squinty eyes seemed to double to the size of two round Sickles.

"My Lord!" he choked out, stammering. He pointed at Harry with an accusing finger, looking back and forth from Voldemort to the Boy Who Lived. Harry could see from the dull, vacant gleam behind the panic in his eyes that this man was not the brightest of the Voldemort's Death Eaters—although, honestly, that wasn't saying very much.

"My Lord, that's him, that's _Potter!_" he cried, and disapproving murmurs swept over the few dozen men and women watching the scene. "He is unbound—he's going to get away—quick, someone—"

Voldemort flicked his wand lazily, and the man collapsed to the ground, shrieking. Harry shuddered.

"Late as usual, Goyle," said Voldemort, his cold voice carrying easily over the other man's pained screams. Harry felt Voldemort lift the curse, and the man's shrieks diminished to shuddering sobs. "Would someone care to bring him up to speed?"

"Harry Potter is our guest," said a woman who was pushing her way through the crowd, and Harry realized with a jolt of surprise that it was Bellatrix. The pain and terror Harry had last seen on her face had been replaced by a crazed, desperate adoration. She emerged in the front of the group and fell to her knees, just before the staircase. "We are not to harm him."

Voldemort was clearly just as surprised. He descended the stairs slowly to stand before her. "Yes, very _good_, Bellatrix," Voldemort all but purred, and Harry felt a stab of hatred for the woman as she began kissing the hems of his robes.

What need could the Dark Lord have of an insane lunatic like this woman? And why did he even need to speak to her like _that_, anyway? It reminded Harry sickeningly of when Voldemort praised him for unintentionally giving away pieces of important information. And although he hated it when Voldemort spoke to him that way

(_and really, he did _hate _it, the pleasure in the Dark Lord's voice did nothing but make Harry _extremely_ unhappy, after all_)

he found that he hated it even more when he used that same tone of voice with the woman who had murdered his godfather.

"_Jealous, Harry_?" someone whispered inside his head, and Harry felt himself go scarlet, right there in front of all these Death Eaters.

"You have clearly learned your lesson," Voldemort spoke aloud at the bottom of the stairs, with a hint of amusement in his voice that Harry hoped only he could notice. Voldemort stepped backward from the woman, releasing her grip on his robes. She remained on the floor, her eyes shining and wild.

"But—but, my Lord," stuttered the man on the ground. He had obviously recovered from his bout of the Cruciatus, but it had done nothing to improve his brain cells, judging from the anger seething just below Voldemort's carefully composed face. "You said that Potter needs to—that you were going to torture him until he begged for death and—"

His stammers dissolved into screams as Voldemort lifted his wand again, real anger flashing behind his eyes now.

"And clearly, you have not," said Voldemort dangerously. Harry could not remove his eyes from the horrifying sight of the writhing man on the floor. This went on for a few more moments before Voldemort's hand finally dropped to his side. The man fell quiet immediately, save for his soft sniffling. "Would anyone else like to tell me what to do with my guests?"

The sea of Death Eaters stared back at him, black and silent. No one spoke.

"In that case," Voldemort said, his voice high and icy, "I'm sure you are wondering why I've summoned you here. In short, I have a number of lessons for _all _of you this evening."

Dread seemed to wash over the sea of the men and women like an icy wave, and Harry wondered if Voldemort would torture the rest of them without provocation. The thought made his stomach lurch.

"First and foremost, you will _suffer terribly at my hand_ if any of you is to bring any harm to Harry Potter." Voldemort's hiss was soft, but it seemed to reverberate through every corner of the room, drowning out the sobs of the man sprawled across the floor. There was no question about the threat underlying these words. "Is this absolutely clear, or must I kill this piece of scum to make my point?"

At this, the man stumbled to his knees, crying hysterically, blabbering and pleading for his life. No one responded. Voldemort treated them with a cold glare before he kicked the man away from him.

"We have reached an understanding, then," the Dark Lord said quietly. "Good. Secondly, I would like to make clear what happens to those who intentionally defy our noble cause and bring valuable information to the enemy." He paused, and Harry felt dread settle cold on his shoulders. Had Voldemort found the person who had warned Arthur Weasley about his capture?

"SEVERUS!"

Harry could have sworn his heart stopped.

_Snape_? Snape had been the one to save him? His head was swimming, and he had to clutch the railing on the staircase to steady himself. That made no sense—Snape not only hated him, but he was on the other side, he had killed Dumbledore …

The door to the cellar swung open. Snape emerged, dark hair swinging in front of his pale face … and he was dragging another person after him. Harry was not sure if he felt relief or disappointment when he realized that his former professor was not about to be subject to Voldemort's wrath, but before he could sort out these feelings, he was distracted by the great confusion that overcame him when he realized who exactly was behind Snape.

"Mundungus Fletcher," Voldemort said coldly, and Snape pushed the limp, bedraggled man onto the floor in front of the staircase, where Voldemort stood on the second step. Harry stared in confusion at the man, who was bloodied and trembling at Voldemort's feet.

How had Mundungus known that Harry had been captured? Perhaps he had been in the meeting room when Harry had burst in with the Horcrux, but then what had Mundungus been doing there in the first place? Furthermore, what loyalty could this man possibly have to Harry and his friends? The last time that they had met in Grimmauld Place, the circumstances had not exactly been … pleasant.

The Dark Lord bent down so that he was leaning close above the trembling man.

"It has come to my attention that earlier this evening, you informed a member of the Order of the Phoenix that I had captured Harry Potter," Voldemort said softly, dangerously, speaking only to Mundungus. "Do you take the Dark Lord for a fool, Fletcher?"

"It wasn' me," the dirty man on the floor croaked, speaking for the first time. He looked like he was about to soil himself right there in the hallway. "I swear it, I di'n' do nothing, I would never, I don't even _like _the kid, stinkin' little brat—"

This, apparently, had not been the right thing to say. Voldemort snarled and stood up, red eyes shining with rage, and Harry felt the other man's anger flash through his forehead. "Silence," he hissed, and the man on the floor stopped speaking immediately.

"Because of the insolence of this man, here," Voldemort said, addressing his Death Eaters now, and on the words _this man _Mundungus gave a howl of pain; apparently Voldemort had cursed him, even as he spoke, "I am relocating to a more secure location. It will not do for members of the Order to be swarming around my base."

And in Harry's head:

"_They will not snatch you away from me again; I cannot risk it_."

Harry was not sure if he had been meant to hear this, but he remained silent from his place at the top of the stairs. He was content to stay out of the midst of the turmoil; after his initial entrance, no one had really paid him any attention. _After all, the psychotic mass murderer has the floor right now_, a part of Harry thought hysterically, still in shock at the situation in which he had landed himself. He quieted this thought immediately; he didn't need the Dark Lord to turn his anger onto him instead, although Harry was beginning to wonder if Mundungus really deserved it. The whole thing almost made less sense than the fleeting idea that _Snape _had been the one to try to save him.

There was no way that the cowardly, traitorous thief had gone out of his way to protect Harry, after all, especially after leaving Mad-Eye for dead earlier that summer.

"But we must always look for the silver lining, yes? I decided to take this opportunity to make an example of those who think it wise to double-cross me," Voldemort was saying, and Mundungus stared up at the Dark Lord, recognition blooming in his bloodshot eyes. "Let this be a reminder that anyone who comes between myself and Harry Potter will pay the worst possible price."

Mundungus' mouth fell open in horror. He scrambled to his knees, his jaw working soundlessly. "I—m'lord—I—"

His voice caught in his throat as Voldemort's cruel, cold eyes fell upon him. A heavy hush fell over the crowd of black-clad Death Eaters.

Voldemort raised his wand; Mundungus whimpered softly.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

The words were uttered effortlessly, as though they had passed through Voldemort's lips a thousand times before, and Harry was again struck by the thought that he could never get used to watching this. A familiar green light, the same that had haunted his dreams for his entire life, filled the hallway. Harry shut his eyes, feeling quite sick all of the sudden.

And just like that, it was over. The bright green flash fell away, and the room seemed to exhale audibly. Harry opened his eyes. Mundungus' body lay dead on the ground.

"_Nagini_," Voldemort hissed, and it took a moment for Harry to realize that the other man was speaking in Parseltongue. "_You must be hungry; come and have a snack_."

There was a slithering from behind him, and Harry clutched even tighter to the railing. The last time he had seen the giant snake had been through the eyes of an old man three years ago, and the sight still managed to recall the terror that Frank Bryce had experienced when the serpent had slithered past his hiding place in Riddle Manor.

"_He smells dirty_," the giant snake hissed, pausing to hover just about the man's dead body, tongue flicking out to taste the air above him.

"_Eat, my dear,_" Voldemort responded, and the Death Eaters visibly flinched at the hissing sounds of the ancient language. "_It will be your last man-meal for a while_."

Nagini hissed disapprovingly, and then reared back to comply.

Harry forced himself to look away when she opened his mouth wide and struck, filling the hall with horrible, spitting noises.

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><p>The new manor was smaller than Harry expected. In fact, it was more of a house than a manor, and even more of a cottage than a house.<p>

It was surprisingly quiet, devoid of cold marble and Slytherin colors, and almost a pleasant place to live in.

_Although I'm not living here for long_, Harry reminded himself, standing in a small but comfortable living room. He had already walked through all five rooms of the tiny house, which could almost be described as cozy. _At the first chance I get, I'm grabbing Hermione and Ron and we're finding a way to get out of here._

"I will bring your friends here tomorrow morning," said Voldemort from behind him, and Harry jumped, spinning around to face the other man in the doorway. Harry had not noticed him standing there, and he wondered how long he had been watching him—and, more importantly, if he had been looking into his thoughts again.

"I see," Harry said warily. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but the wall that Harry had let down for the other man had wedged its way between them again. He guessed that it was sometime between when Voldemort had nearly strangled him to death and when he had tortured and killed his crazed followers in front of Harry like it was all some part of a daytime performance.

This man was a murderer. As much as he wanted to believe that Tom Riddle was buried inside of him somewhere, the past hour had jarred Harry back to reality quite violently. Voldemort killed without thought or care, and it could have just as easily been one of Harry's friends beneath his wand back there. Harry could not afford to forget that.

"None of my Death Eaters know about this home," Voldemort offered as an explanation to his earlier statement, although Harry had not asked for one. "Therefore, only I can retrieve your friends and bring them back here." He leaned against the doorway, watching the raven-haired boy, and Harry could see that there was something in his voice that expected a response. He did not give his captor this satisfaction.

Another long moment passed. Voldemort's gaze, however, did not falter as Harry had hoped, but instead burned even brighter.

"You are lost in your emotions again, Harry," said Voldemort softly, taunting him. "What are you thinking about?"

"Why even bother asking?" Harry shot back bitterly. He turned away to stare out the window, trying to see outside, but the blanket of night prevented him from seeing anything beyond his reflection. He waited for the gentle nudging at the back of his mind that would indicate that Voldemort was prodding for information, but it did not come.

"Have I done something to displease you?" Voldemort asked, and there was a hint of malice in his tone now. "I'm not sure if you've noticed, what with your clearly underdeveloped sense of appreciation, but I've been taking great lengths to ensure your comfort."

Harry swallowed, remembering the "great lengths" Voldemort had gone through to prepare him in his bed, but he pushed those thoughts away forcefully. He was confused, and he needed answers, and he had already proved to himself that he could not think very clearly when his mind was stuck on … _that_.

"That's the part that confuses me," Harry said finally, turning around. His stomach lurched when he found Voldemort had come up to stand behind him, only a few feet away. "I don't understand why you are being so … so …"

"Accommodating?" said Voldemort, and he actually smirked. It was a very strange expression to see on the Dark Lord's face, if only because it did not seem to carry any wickedness, only amusement. "I understand that it must be very confusing, given the violence that you've no doubt come to expect from our various confrontations. You rather enjoyed my ministrations earlier, I noticed."

Despite his best efforts to prevent it, Harry blushed. He pressed forward, however, refusing to give in to the Dark Lord's attempts to dissuade him.

"Even if I am your … your Horcrux," Harry said, the word like venom on his tongue, "I don't understand why you care about my comfort at all. You hate me."

"Hatred is a very strong emotion, Harry," said Voldemort quietly, "and if you recall, I do not have great taste for strong emotions." He sighed and brushed his fingers against Harry's cheekbone. The boy shied away from the touch, refusing to be pulled in to the other man's spell.

"But I do not hate you, Harry; I never _hated_ you," Voldemort continued, refusing to move his hand, much to Harry's displeasure. "Of course, I wanted you dead, but that's a different matter entirely. I acted rashly, I admit, when I first heard the prophecy—_'the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches_'—but I see things very differently now."

He continued to look at Harry thoughtfully, silent, until the boy began to squirm again, uncomfortable. He knew that Voldemort had only heard the first few lines of the prophecy, and from the way that he was speaking, it seemed as though the Dark Lord had never been informed of the rest: fate had destined that one of them would need to kill the other in the end.

Not that Harry planned to bring this to light at the moment.

"I see that it is true, indeed, that you possess power," mused Voldemort, and his fingers trailed up Harry's jaw to his forehead, skimming across the lighting scar there. Harry could not suppress the shiver that ran down his spine, but he refused to look away from the older man's eyes. "Such power would have been wasted if it had simply been destroyed sixteen years ago … perhaps the fates were trying to tell me something, after all …"

Harry frowned at the contemplative look in the Dark Lord's eyes. He didn't understand what Voldemort was getting at.

"Would you like some tea?"

Harry blinked, utterly taken aback by the sudden change of topic. "Pardon?"

"Tea," said Voldemort, his eyes shining with that amused glint again and his lips twitching. "I seem to recall that you did not think me … ah … _human _enough to fancy it. Perhaps I can prove you wrong about more than one thing tonight."

"Er …" Harry said blankly, completely taken off-guard by the offer. "Sure, yeah. Tea would be fine."

"Do sit down, then," Voldemort said, gesturing to the couch against the far wall, and he strode out of the room. Harry was left bewildered in the small living room, alone.

_What the hell is going on_? Harry thought to himself. _And when will I find an opportunity to escape_?

He turned back to the window, nearly pressing his nose to the glass in an attempt to see outside and get a glimpse of his surroundings, but only the darkness of night greeted him from beyond the windowpane. Harry had not been able to see very much when they had Disapparated from Malfoy Manor—he had felt very sick again, as he usually did whenever he was forced to endure the unpleasant experience of Side-Along Apparation—but he had noticed that the house appeared to be relatively small from the outside, and the sound of rushing water had met his ears before Voldemort had ushered him inside.

Harry turned away from the window, disappointed and resolving to instead get a good look around the room in which he was currently. There were paintings on the walls, but renditions of humans could not be seen in any of them; instead, a variety of landscapes and still life paintings hung about the room, cold and lifeless. A small coffee table sat in front of the couch, and Harry recognized the golden chest from Voldemort's drawing room in the corner of this room as well. It looked extremely out of place here, amongst paintings with no movement and the elaborate gray and red rug covering the wooden floor.

If Harry hadn't known better, he would have thought this to be an abandoned Muggle cottage, but he could not imagine Lord Voldemort moving his place of residence from the magnificent Malfoy Manor to a place that had once housed common Muggles.

"Earl Grey," Voldemort's voice floated in from the hallway, the man promptly following after it. He was carrying two mugs, each steaming from the surface. Harry realized that he still had not sat down on the couch as Voldemort had requested, and he quickly went to do so.

The other man handed him a cup of steaming tea. Harry stared at it, confused. Had Voldemort really went and prepared this himself?

"I do not have any House Elves," Voldemort responded to the unasked question, and Harry was struck again by that unnerving feeling that the other man was rifling through his thoughts. The older man sat down next to Harry on the couch, and it felt oddly casual, sitting next to the Dark Lord like this and sipping tea in what might as well be a vacation home. "I find them annoying and useless. Wizards have no need of servants if they can use their own magic properly."

"How do you explain your Death Eaters, then?" Harry mumbled into his cup, but Voldemort did not grace this with a response, the only indication that he had even heard being a narrowing on his scarlet eyes.

"Drink up, Harry," said Voldemort. "We have much to discuss."

Harry looked reluctantly at the steaming tea. He found himself suddenly unable to trust any drink that the other man had prepared for him, despite his willingness to trust him with more _intimate _activities earlier that night.

_Merlin, I need to stop thinking about that_, Harry thought, fighting another blush from crawling onto his cheeks.

"If you really think I'm foolish enough to poison the person who carries my soul, then, by all means, continue to rudely reject my hospitality," Voldemort said coldly, and Harry glared. "Although if you are really so worried, I would be happy to exchange cups with you."

Harry continued to stare at his mug warily for a few more moments before taking a tentative sip. If Voldemort was willing to exchange cups with him, after all, there couldn't be anything lethal in there. _And besides,_ he reminded himself, _he's had more than enough opportunities to kill me already, if that was what he's after._

"What do you want from me?" Harry blurted out before he could stop himself. Voldemort lowered the cup from his mouth, looking curious. "Why haven't you just thrown me into a tower or something and have done with it? What reason could you possibly have for feeding me tea and sparing my friends and … and bringing me to your bed?"

There, he'd said it. Color was creeping traitorously into his cheeks again, but he didn't care. He needed to understand his enemy's motivations in order to respond to them, which was becoming harder and harder to remember the more aware Harry became of the other man's proximity to him. Voldemort, however, only stared back at him, his expression unreadable, raising his cups to that maddening mouth and taking a sip of tea.

"You are my soul," he said finally. "You are mine. I take good care of the things that belong to me."

Harry frowned at this, anger bubbling in his gut. "I am not _yours_," he responded vehemently, "and I am not a _thing _that needs to be taken care of. I may have a piece of your soul, but you've got my blood in your veins!"

Voldemort was not irritated by Harry's tone, but rather, it seemed to make him only more thoughtful. "We are one, Harry," he said softly, and the sound of his voice, hushed and thoughtful, threatened another shudder to overtake Harry's body. "We are bound to each other; there is no use denying this."

"What do you want from me?" Harry repeated again. "I still don't understand."

"I want you to join me," Voldemort said simply, and Harry practically choked on his tea. Could he be serious? That had to be pretty high up there on the list of things that Harry had never expected this man to say to him.

"Pardon?" Harry said for the second time that evening, coughing.

"Join my cause, Harry," Voldemort said again, and he moved closer to Harry on the couch. The boy found he could not look away from the red eyes that had suddenly trapped him in their expectant gaze. "Your friends will be safe here, and I will make sure that you will never come to harm. Join me. Together, we will build the world into a stronger, better place. Magic is the future, Harry; it is time for us to take our place as the rightful rulers of this world."

Harry stared at him in disbelief. There was a long moment of silence, and Voldemort was staring at him hungrily again, expectant.

"You seriously …" Harry's voice faltered, hoarse, and he coughed and tried again, mustering his courage, which was proving increasingly difficult with Voldemort's heavy gaze pinning him to the couch. "Do you seriously expect me to just abandon everything that I've been fighting for and _join _you? Everything that I stand for, everything I believe in completely goes against what you are trying to do."

"You are still so young and impressionable, Harry," Voldemort said, chuckling, and he brushed a lock of dark hair out of Harry's eyes. "Everything that you stand for is only a small shadow of an old man's whims and fancies. Albus Dumbledore would have sacrificed you for his cause to kill me, Harry. Don't you see?"

"You're wrong," said Harry, his stomach churning. He recoiled from the man's touch, refusing to allow it to distract him. "Dumbledore would never have wanted that … he wouldn't have planned for me to die."

"It would not be the first time that Albus has sacrificed someone for his noble causes, Harry," Voldemort said. "I don't suppose he's ever confided in you about his poor sister, hmm? His thirst for power was a little more apparent then, when he was still with Grindewald."

Harry stared. What on earth was he on about now? "Grindewald? The Dark wizard, Grindewald? Dumbledore _defeated_ him," he said matter-of-factly.

"Ah, yes, but not before Albus helped him in his rise to power," Voldemort hissed, his eyes burning bright. He leaned closer. "Albus and Gellert were very close, Harry. One might even describe their relations as intimate in a way that only enemies can be."

"Intimate?" Harry repeated, his voice catching in his throat. There was no way, he couldn't mean …

"Don't look so shocked, Harry," the other man said, and when had he gotten so close, anyway? "Surely, you of all people can understand."

Harry was positively gaping, even as he tried to quell the shame rising in himself at the reminder of what he had done. _Dumbledore_? His old, benign, twinkly-eyed headmaster had fallen prey to the same sensations that the Dark Lord sparked in Harry? It was hard to think about how unlikely this was, however, when Voldemort was leaning in so damn close to Harry like that, they were practically touching.

"The two most powerful men of their time. Together, they were unstoppable," whispered Voldemort, the blood in his eyes flashing and reminding Harry of how powerful the man sitting next to him was as well. "They had a falling out, but that is irrelevant. It is our time now, Harry. We are the two most powerful men in the world now, and yet we are as one."

The other man's face was so close to his own that he could feel the Dark Lord's breath on his lips. Harry could suppress the shudder no longer.

"_Join me, Harry_."

"No." The word fell flat from Harry's lips, and surprise flickered in the scarlet pools of Voldemort's eyes. "I won't, I can't."

Voldemort stared at him, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Do you truly think it wise to defy me?" he asked, and something in his voice made Harry afraid. Then, in one swift movement, the older man had somehow straddled him, pinning his arms to the couch, his face not two inches from Harry's own.

"You are completely at my mercy, Harry Potter," he breathed against Harry's lips. His hips were resting gently against Harry's pelvis, and the boy felt his body betraying him, reacting to the feeling of the man pressed hard against him.

"And do you really think it will be effective to _frighten_ me into joining your ranks?" Harry heard himself say, although he did not know from where the words were coming—his mind was too busy being torn between terror and teenage lust. Biting his lip, he pressed onward, refusing to be intimidated.

"You're just a bully," Harry said, and winced when the man snarled and his grip tightened around his wrists. "You've always just taken what you've needed, coerced and bribed and threatened. How many of your little followers do you think are with you out of loyalty, rather than fear? And Bellatrix doesn't count—she's got something loose in her head, that one."

Voldemort sneered and shifted over Harry, and the boy struggled not to let his eyes roll back in his head at the friction in his lap—that was purposeful, it _had _to be, the evil prat. "Do you take me for a Hufflepuff, Potter?" the man said, spitting the word out like a piece of dirt. "I have no need of loyalty."

"Yes, until something better comes along," Harry retorted, and he could hardly believe that he was trying to give Voldemort of all people a lesson in social etiquette. "They will swarm like flies to the next best thing, especially if it doesn't make them fear for their lives and their families."

Voldemort paused, and he seemed to be contemplating these words. Harry held his breath.

It was a few moments before he spoke again.

"Very well," the man sighed, his voice devoid of its previous anger. He was looking at Harry in that strange way again. "You will understand everything in time."

_I doubt it_, Harry thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

"In the meantime, we will begin your lessons tomorrow," Voldemort said off-handedly, releasing one of Harry's wrists to touch his forehead gently. It took a moment for Harry to process what he had said.

"My lessons?" he repeated, trying to concentrate as the older man brushed his fingertips across Harry's scar.

"Yes," said Voldemort, staring at his forehead. "From my past encounters with you, Harry, I have inferred that the current Hogwarts curriculum has left a lot to be desired."

Harry frowned and flushed at the same time, squirming beneath his enemy's fingers. He really wished that Voldemort would stop looking at him like that. "I've been surviving pretty well on my own, thanks," he said tensely.

Voldemort chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "Only because I've found you too fascinating to kill," he murmured, burying his long fingers in Harry's dark hair. Harry blushed even harder in response.

"Come," the older man said, and disentangled himself from Harry's lap. The boy felt strangely cold without the warmth of his enemy's body on top of him. "You must be tired. It has been quite a long evening for you."

Harry bit his lip. A long evening indeed. "Where will I sleep?"

Voldemort glanced over his shoulder. "You will share my bed tonight."

Harry swallowed at the look in the other man's eyes, trying to quiet the anticipation that was building inside of him. "I thought that there were two bedrooms here."

"I'm afraid that your friends will soon be taking up the other one," said Voldemort. He dropped his gaze down Harry's body, and the boy wondered how he could make Harry feel so naked with just his eyes. "How unfortunate."

Harry ran a hand over his face and stood up. Unfortunate indeed. How was he supposed to rest enough to hatch a coherent escape plan when he was sharing a bed with Voldemort? He would probably be getting even less sleep than he had been when he was avoiding Voldemort's mental invasions in Grimmauld Place.

And what was even worse was the warmth building in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Voldemort and a bed in the same room again.

_For Ron and Hermione_, the boy reminded himself, trying to expel the guilt swelling inside of him as he followed the Dark Lord up the stairs.


	15. III:3

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort.

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Rated M for HP/LV slash.

A/N: Once again, I really want to thank everyone who's been reading this fic! It's my very first one, and the feedback that I've gotten has been truly amazing. I really appreciate every single review that you guys leave me. Hope you all like this chapter! :)

* * *

><p>3.<p>

Not for the first time, Voldemort found that he could not look away from Harry Potter.

The boy moved hesitantly into the bedroom, all long awkward limbs and messy hair. His glasses were still slightly askew, the striking green eyes behind them darting warily around the room like a nervous, trapped animal.

_My prey_, Voldemort thought, allowing a small smirk to curl his lips.

He had never seen such a captivating creature in his entire life. He had always known that the boy was beautiful—a rather unfortunate detail, considering that his murder was inevitable, or so it had seemed—but it had not truly begun to affect him until he had started to regularly travel the connection that tied their minds together. He had reached out to Harry's thoughts those many weeks ago with the sole intention of harvesting crucial information from his soft, useless brain. It was a plan to hasten the whelp's death, to find the bane of his existence and eliminate him.

He certainly had not expected to become so irreversibly captivated by the beautiful enigma that is Harry Potter.

The boy was beginning to look uncomfortable, and Voldemort realized that he had been staring at him for an inordinate amount of time. But who could blame him? Hardly an hour ago, he had had that gorgeous creature writhing underneath him, naked and flushed and perfect …

_Stop that_. The man mentally shook himself, trying to remove the alluring memory of the younger man's beautiful body from his mind. Such intense desire was very unfamiliar to him, at least as applied to another human being. It had been a great many years since he had been attracted to anyone in such a way, and never so strongly.

But, he reminded himself reluctantly, it had been a long and exhausting day for his captive. As appealing as the thought of Harry naked and mewling under his fingers may be

(_and oh, was it appealing, he was certain there was no sight more delectable than the way that Harry Potter's face screwed up when he was trying not to moan_)

he needed to be considerate in order to get Harry to cooperate.

"You must be tired." Voldemort did not remove his gaze from the sight of the younger man standing in front of him. Harry had barely left the doorway, standing awkwardly and looking thoroughly out of place. He scratched the back of his neck nervously, a habit that Voldemort had noticed Harry fell into when he was trying to hide something.

"Yeah," the boy responded, his voice small. "Tired." Another neck scratch.

What on earth could possibly be making the child so nervous? Curious, Voldemort searched for the bridge to the boy's mind, seized the threads that connected them, and pulled.

He was suddenly bombarded with images and sensations so vivid that, for a moment, he almost forgot where he was.

_Harry, sprawled naked across cool black sheets, warm fingers brushing across his trembling stomach. Harry, pushed up hard against a wall, Voldemort's fingers pumping his arousal skillfully, slick and hot and incredible. Harry, trying so hard not to cry out as long fingers thrust inside of him, and then groaning a few moments later as Voldemort fucked him hard into the mattress_.

Well, then.

The older man quickly extracted himself from the boy's thoughts. Harry was blushing spectacularly now, his face practically the color of a tomato, and Voldemort suddenly yearned to see how far he could make that color travel down Harry's body.

Perhaps Harry wasn't as sleepy as he had assumed. And Voldemort had bound himself to the role of a considerate host, after all. What sort of host leaves his guest's needs so blatantly unfulfilled? he asked himself, raking his heated gaze down Harry's lithe, beautiful body to settle on the final piece of evidence he needed to confirm the boy's desires.

"_Quite _tired, clearly," Voldemort mused, and he advanced on the boy without another thought on the matter.

"Um," said Harry, before the older man swept him up into a crushing kiss.

Harry's skin was like silk beneath his fingers as Voldemort slipped his hands up beneath his dirty shirt. He would need to get the boy some new clothes, this outfit was too baggy and it was flithy to boot—although he looked much better without any clothes at all, the man thought, a smirk tugging at his lips. In one fluid motion, Voldemort yanked Harry's shirt off of his head, mussing up his wild black hair even further, and Voldemort stared hungrily at the bare expanse of torso now available to him.

Harry made a small, needy noise then, the pupils in his brilliant green eyes dilating, his swollen mouth parted slightly. It would have been rather amusing, how easily he affected the boy, if the sight didn't want to make him devour Harry whole.

Voldemort dragged the boy bodily into the room and pulled him toward the bed. He would be getting at least one more moan out of those shy, pretty lips tonight if he had anything to say about it.

* * *

><p>Sunlight, warm on his face, and the low sounds of people speaking somewhere far away from him. And yet it was so easy to keep sleeping, to stay lost in his dreams, in the warmth surrounding his body.<p>

"_Wake up, Harry_."

The gentle coaxing of the voice in his mind was a little harder for him to ignore. The boy groaned, trying to push the voice away—he had been having such a nice dream, after all, and he and Ron and Hermione had a very long day of Horcrux-hunting ahead of them. Couldn't Voldemort leave him be just this once?

"_It's time to wake up now_."

Reluctant to wake up just yet, Harry rolled over, trying to remember what he had been dreaming about. It had been such a pleasant dream; there had been heat, and touches, and wet kisses below his waist …

(_and scarlet eyes locking onto his as he came forever inside that warm, terrible, talented mouth_)

Harry sat up abruptly, horror washing over him. He looked around blearily—his glasses had vanished sometime last night, although he could not remember taking them off—but he could see just from his blurry surroundings that he was not in the same tent in which he had woken for the past month.

He glanced down at the bed, at the covers which had been thrown off the other side, indicating that someone had already left that morning, and swallowed. Nope, definitely not a dream, then.

He, Harry Potter, had spent the night in Lord Voldemort's bed.

And, even worse, he had enjoyed it far more than he should have.

Heat rushed to his face, while guilt simultaneously crashed over him in a wave. _You're disgusting_, he thought to himself, ashamed, but how was he supposed to help enjoying it! He had been left with no other choice, after all, and it wasn't _his _fault if Voldemort was clearly experienced far beyond Harry's seventeen years. The man seemed to know exactly what to do with his tongue and his fingers to drive Harry to the brink of insanity, and the fact that the older man could literally read Harry's thoughts was no help in the matter.

Harry closed his eyes, rubbing at his temples. It was exactly this train of thought that had led him to that situation last night, and if he didn't stop soon, Voldemort would know what was keeping Harry in bed so long and come back inside and the same exact thing would happen all over again.

"_Foolish boy,_" Voldemort hissed in Harry's head, surprising him so much that he nearly jumped off of the bed. "_Do you truly think that I have nothing better to do than satisfy your hormonal impulses all day? As tempting as that may be, more productive members of the wizarding world have things that they must accomplish today. Get yourself out of that bed and downstairs immediately._"

Harry scowled, angry at the blush that was creeping into his cheeks, despite the fact that there was no one else in the room to feel embarrassed in front of. He could hardly notice his enemy in his head anymore, Voldemort seemed to be there so often, but was it so much to ask for at least a _little _bit of privacy? And where were his damn glasses anyway?

"_On the bedside table_._"_

Harry huffed audibly. It was still very irritating, even if Voldemort _was _helping him.

Sure enough, his glasses were sitting on the nightstand. Harry placed them carefully on the bridge of his nose, and then hurried to collect the trail of his clothing leading from the doorway to the bed. Voldemort had actually bothered to take his clothes off manually last night, Harry remembered with another blush. In fact, he had been so slow and teasing about the entire thing that Harry had actually wondered if he could explode from sexual frustration.

Biting his lip, Harry climbed into his jeans, which were still unwashed from yesterday, and pulled his dirty t-shirt over his head. This only served to ruffle his already very messy hair, but he had long ago given up on trying to tame the wild locks. Not even magic could keep them calm.

_Besides, at this rate, Voldemort is just going to mess them all up again anyway_, Harry thought to himself, and tried to convince himself that he was not looking forward to this as he exited the bedroom.

Voices were floating up the stairs, more audible now. Harry felt his nerves clench in his stomach. He did not really feel like dealing with any more of Voldemort's Death Eaters, especially after watching the Dark Lord torturing many of them the day before. As Harry had proved to himself at the Ministry of Magic in his fifth year, he could not bring himself to wish pain on anyone, no matter how much he hated them.

But hadn't Voldemort said that none of his Death Eaters knew about this place? Harry frowned, listening harder to see if he could recognize who had been talking, but the voices had fallen silent.

"Harry." Voldemort's voice came up the stairs from the living room. "Come downstairs."

Well, there was no avoiding it now. Sighing, Harry walked slowly down the wooden steps, which creaked beneath his weight. It was so strange, thinking that this place might actually belong to Voldemort. The more he saw of the homey little cottage, the less likely it seemed that the Dark Lord could ever inhabit such a pleasant place.

Harry rounded the corner into the living room and froze when an even more unlikely sight greeted him there. Ron and Hermione were sitting on the couch, looking exceedingly nervous and uncomfortable. Voldemort was sitting across from them in an arm chair that he must have conjured specially for the occasion. It was clear from the expression on the Dark Lord's face that he would rather be anywhere else than sitting in this cottage with Harry Potter's two best friends.

Harry noticed that Voldemort had not offered them any Earl Grey.

"Hi, Harry," Ron said tentatively, glancing nervously at Voldemort. It seemed as though he was afraid to stand up.

"Hey," said Harry for a lack of anything better to say, unable to prevent the sloppy grin from bursting onto his face. He gave an awkward wave.

"Oh, _Harry_," said Hermione, and, shooting one last disdainful glare at Voldemort, she launched herself from the couch and hugged Harry fiercely. Warmth blossomed inside of him. It was as if her body in his arms was the real, solid proof that he needed to know that his friends were really here, that they were alright.

"I'm so glad you're okay," she whispered against his neck, and Harry could feel tears there as well. He closed his eyes and exhaled shakily.

"Me too, Hermione." Harry rubbed her back a little awkwardly. He had never known how to handle girls when they got all emotional like this, and he was reminded strikingly of Cho Chang crying hysterically in his arms as she tried to kiss him during his fifth year.

"How very touching," Voldemort said coldly from the armchair, and Harry looked up, biting his lip. He was quite surprised by the similarity of the expressions he saw on both Ron and Voldemort's faces, and, eyes widening, Harry hurried to release Hermione, pushing her away abruptly.

"I'm just glad that they're safe," Harry responded, slightly alarmed by the menacing sight that the Dark Lord posed at that moment with his narrowed eyes and thin lips. In a rush, Harry realized exactly what was happening, and was barely able to stop himself from laughing out loud. "_Jealous, Tom?_" he added in his head, trying to mimic the tone that Voldemort had taken with him yesterday, and Voldemort's expression darkened considerably.

"Safe?" Ron practically squeaked from the sofa. Harry saw that he was very pale, and he could not seem to stop looking between Harry and Voldemort.

"Did he hurt you?" Harry's stomach clenched horribly at this notion, and he turned wide eyes to the man in the armchair. Surely, after everything that had happened, the other man wouldn't have done something else to damage Harry's trust.

_He's the Dark Lord_, Harry reminded himself. _No amount of tea and mind-blowing sex should make you forget that._

"You wound me, Weasley." Voldemort scowled at Ron, who nearly disappeared into the cushions in his retreat, and Harry was surprised to find relief washing over him. "You will find that I was exceptionally careful with them, Harry, although it did take a rather strong grip on the red-head's arm to make him stand still enough to Apparate with me."

"He's .. he's _Y-You-Know-Who!_" Ron spluttered to Harry, his eyes still darting back and forth between his best friend and Voldemort. Harry didn't miss the smirk that tugged on Voldemort's lips at the fear in his voice. "And he's calling you _Harry_!"

"_Among other things_." Voldemort's voice may only have been in his mind, but it was still enough to make Harry blush profusely. If Harry had had his wand, he knew he would have been unable to resist hexing the man right now, but instead he had to suffice with glaring viciously in his direction. As viciously as one could glare with their cheeks burning, anyhow.

"He _bruised_ me," Ron whined, clutching his upper arm.

"Oh will you shut _up, _Ronald!" cried Hermione exasperatedly, glaring rather viciously at the red-head, who shrank back into the cushions again. She turned back to Harry, frowning. "He really was … surprisingly gentle, Harry." She threw another wary, distrustful look at Voldemort.

"Gentle!" Ron snorted, apparently recovering from the intensity of Hermione's glare. "Until he strings us up and roasts us over a cauldron."

"How very medieval," Voldemort drawled from the armchair, and Ron flinched at the sound of his voice. "I think feeding you to my snake might be more appropriate."

Ron squeaked. Hermione glared. Harry tried to compose his expression into something disapproving, but it was difficult with laughter bubbling in his stomach.

"No one is being fed to any snake," Harry said, attempting to shoot a disapproving look at his enemy, who was clearly having too much fun terrifying his friends.

"How do you know that?" Ron demanded, his face completely void of color. "Harry, he's _You-Know-Who_!"

"I know perfectly well who he is," Harry said, face darkening. He was reminded briefly of their fight before Ron had stormed out

(_"He's constantly in my head, Ron! He's always there, almost every day, I see someone else get murdered, right through my own eyes!"_)

and he glowered a little more. How often was Ron going to remind him of the threat that Voldemort posed? Shouldn't Harry know better than anyone else?

Something in Harry's tone must have affected Ron, however, for he was now looking up at Harry with great remorse. "Sorry, mate," Ron he softly, his voice shaking a bit.

Harry sighed, paused, tried to remove the stiffness from his voice. "It's fine."

"No, really, I am sorry—about the whole thing, with yesterday, and stuff," Ron went on awkwardly. Had it really only been just yesterday? Harry was beginning to get a headache. "I'd trust you with my life, mate, and … and I'll never leave your side again, I swear it. I should have never left in the first place. That's why we're here now, really. And … I'm just, I'm sorry," Ron finished rather lamely, looking hopefully back up at his friend.

It was a pretty flimsy apology, and Harry knew it, but he felt that familiar warmth growing inside him nonetheless, touched by the sincerity in Ron's eyes. There was another great wave of affection washing over him for these two wonderful friends, who had ignored the warnings of more capable wizards and wandered helplessly after Harry if only so they could stand beside him in the end.

"Thanks, Ron," said Harry finally, offering him a smile. "Really, it means a lot."

Voldemort stood up abruptly. "This is positively nauseating," he said sharply, and Ron resumed cowering in the corner of the couch. "Potter, you may show your friends to their room upstairs. You are to return here in a quarter of an hour. You will have to proceed with this revolting display of affection without me; I am afraid that if I am forced to endure this any longer, I will be sick."

With that, Voldemort strode out of the room, hardly concealing the scowl on his face.

There were a few moments of silence, perhaps to ensure that the older man had left eavesdropping vicinity, before anyone spoke.

"Moody bloke, the Dark Lord, isn't he?" Ron said, giving a shaky, nervous laugh.

"You don't know the half of it," Harry mumbled, thinking of Voldemort's frequent mood swings from murderous raving lunatic to kind, tea-making host. "Come on, I'll show you upstairs."

The three friends ascended the steps in silence, save for the creaky wooden stairs. Harry's mind was racing as they emerged into the small hallway. How on earth could he possibly explain this to them? He found that he was very reluctant to share the newly acquired information that he was Voldemort's Horcrux, knowing that the knowledge of his imminent death would only make his friends even more upset. But how else could he explain the Dark Lord's sudden kindness?

Not to mention that there was no way _ever _that Harry could tell them just how far Voldemort's kindness had recently extended in Harry's life.

"Here we are," said Harry, trying to sound encouraging as he opened the door next to the one that led to Voldemort's bedroom.

The room inside was much smaller than the one Harry had slept in, with hardly enough room for the full-sized bed that sat beneath a large painting of a forest, in which a number of pine trees swayed softly in a breeze. There was one chair in the corner of the room and a closet next to the door, although Ron and Hermione had not exactly packed their wardrobes for their trip to Malfoy Manor. There were no windows, Harry noticed sullenly—one less route to count in their eventual escape.

"Er …" Ron stammered, and Harry looked questioningly over at him. The color had flooded back into Ron's face as though it had never left, and Harry found himself grateful that, no matter how often he had been blushing in the past twenty-four hours, he was sure that he never looked quite _that _red. "There's only one bed."

"Oh," said Harry, not sure of what else to say. Ron and Hermione both looked suddenly exceedingly uncomfortable.

"Guess you'll have to soften up and forgive me one of these days, then, eh?" Ron said with a strained laugh. Hermione harrumphed and pushed past them, looking very angry. Harry quickly decided not to ask.

"Well, it's certainly more comfortable than that cellar," Hermione said, pointedly ignoring Ron, who went and sat in the chair sulkily when he realized that she was not going to respond to him. "Harry, can you close the door?"

_Here goes_.

Swallowing nervously, Harry stepped inside the small bedroom and closed the door behind him. He leaned against it as Hermione settled onto the edge of the bed, studying her fingernails with a sour expression on her face. Ron was still sulking in the chair.

Watching them, Harry was struck with the awful feeling that, even though his friends were here with him, he was still very much alone in all of this. They would never understand him, or Voldemort, or any of it. They hadn't been able to understand Harry's connection with Voldemort before, so why should they even remotely understand what was going on now?

"Er … Harry?" Ron asked suddenly. Harry pulled himself out of his dread to listen. "If me and Hermione are sleeping in here, then where are you going to stay?"

_Shit_. He hadn't thought about that. Well, there was no way to lie about this one, since his friends would surely find out about at least that tidbit of information eventually.

"He wants me to stay in his bedroom with him," Harry said quietly, and Ron's face blanched. Quickly, he added, "I sleep on a couch in there. He says … it's so that I'm never out of his sight for too long."

It was a lame excuse, and Harry knew it, but it seemed to satisfy at least Ron, who was grimacing now. "Gee, mate, I'm really sorry," he said genuinely. "That must be awful."

Harry worried at his lip. "It is," he lied. "But he really is being … unusually nice."

"I still don't get it!" Hermione interjected, her voice snappish. She looked up from her hands, and there was fear in her eyes as she looked at Harry. "It doesn't make any sense. It's not in Voldemort's character to be _nice_, and especially to you! How could he go from wanting you dead to safe-guarding you like … like he actually cares about what happens to you? I just don't understand it."

Harry swallowed. If he wasn't careful, Hermione, brilliant as she was, would figure out why Harry was indeed more valued beyond anything else in the world to Voldemort now. And now that he had thought on it, Harry had decided that he couldn't tell Ron and Hermione that he was a Horcrux—or at least, not just yet. The knowledge that he would have to sacrifice himself in order to destroy Voldemort would not settle well with his two best friends, to say the least. And as frustrating as they could be at times, Harry wanted to protect them from that kind of emotional pain for as long as he could.

This was something he would have to face on his own. But perhaps he could, at least, tell some of the truth.

"I think I might have an idea," Harry said, his mind working furiously to not give too much away. Ron and Hermione were both looking fixedly at him with eager, attentive expressions. He couldn't screw this up. "Yesterday, when we got here, he was talking about giving me lessons and training me. And he said something about how _powerful_ I am, although that doesn't make much sense, since the only reason I've ever been able to escape from him has been my own dumb luck."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest this, but Harry spoke over her. "It's true, okay? He's a much more powerful wizard than I'll ever be. But from the way he was talking, you'd think I was the best thing that ever happened to him." He paused. "I think that he wants to use me, like a weapon or something."

His friends stared blankly back at him, and Harry wondered if it was too far-fetched of a conclusion to draw without the rather necessary bit about his soul belonging to Voldemort.

It was Ron who spoke first. "But Harry, that will never work. The prophecy says one of you are going to have to kill the other, right?"

"He still doesn't know the whole thing," Harry said, lowering his voice. "He doesn't even know that I know it. Just the first few sentences—'the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,' and all that rot."

Hermione looked very deep in thought. "He wants to train you?" she said, frowning. She looked sympathetically up at him, and there was pain in her eyes, which were still red from crying. "Harry, you really need to be careful. Voldemort is very manipulative. If he really believes that having you on his side will help him, then he'll do whatever it takes to keep you there." She bit her lip. "That's … probably why we're here, actually."

Well, she was halfway right, and as long as she didn't think there was more to the story, then that was good enough for Harry.

Meanwhile, Ron's eyes had widened considerably. He looked petrified at the prospect of being used as bait for the Dark Lord's purposes. Harry wanted to assure him that he would have no trouble giving Voldemort what he wanted, seeing as the "motivation" Voldemort spoke of was slightly different from what Hermione had in mind, but there was unfortunately no way that he could do this without confusing them further. So he remained silent, staring at his feet.

"You'd better get down there, then, mate," said Ron, badly disguising the fright hiding in his voice. "He did say only fifteen minutes."

"Right," said Harry, rubbing at the back of his neck and feeling guilty.

Hermione got up from the bed and gave him another hug. "Be careful, Harry," she said, pulling away to look him in the eye, and Harry hoped dearly that she wouldn't start crying again. "Don't worry about us. We'll be alright."

"Don't be stupid," said Harry, smiling painfully through his guilt. "We're right in the same house now. I'll see you again by the end of the day, I'm sure."

But something in Hermione's face told him that she didn't believe him.

"Good luck, Harry," said Ron.

"Thanks," said Harry, and giving them another strained smile, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

Voldemort was waiting for him in the living room downstairs, sitting patiently on the couch as though he had not just stormed out a few minutes earlier. There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence as the Dark Lord evaluated him, his expression unreadable. Harry tried not to fidget.

"Hi," said Harry awkwardly, if only to break the silence. Voldemort narrowed his eyes, still staring.

"I don't think you could have chosen more appalling children with which to surround yourself," said Voldemort finally, his voice dripping with disdain. "If the Weasley boy had squirmed any more than he did, I don't think I would have been able to restrain myself from cursing him."

"Because Lord Voldemort is simply legendary for his self-restraint," Harry shot back, his face growing hot at the obvious implication behind his own words. "Do you honestly think that your crowd of Death Eaters is any better?"

"And the Mudblood was even more emotional than _you,_ Harry. I didn't think it possible."

"Hermione is the smartest witch in my year!" Harry exclaimed, really beginning to feel angry now.

"Is that so?" Voldemort said, as though he was loathe to admit anything nice about her. "Yes, I suppose that she was at least more clever than the Weasley boy. Well, hopefully you will prove to be more intelligent than either of them; I'm afraid you won't be of very much use to me if you consider strolling straight through the enemy's threshold an adequate offensive tactic."

"They care about me," Harry said, a little hurt. Voldemort's eyes flashed dangerously.

"I thought I already told you that the amount of revolting sentiment in this room was making me nauseous," he said coolly. "You'll find that I am not a very pleasant teacher when I am angry, Harry."

Despite the threat in the other man's voice, Harry couldn't help but feel amused; perhaps love really was Voldemort's greatest weakness after all.

"What do you want to teach me?" Harry said, trying to change the topic. As amusing as Voldemort's irritation was to him, Harry didn't reckon that he fancied being tortured if he did not catch on quickly enough for Voldemort's tastes.

"A great number of things," said Voldemort, falling easily back into the role of a professional and unaffected Dark Lord. "Your Occlumency skills are particularly horrendous."

Harry flushed. "It's difficult, alright? I don't expect I'll ever be able to keep you out, no matter how good I get."

Voldemort chuckled. "Fortunately, the connection we share is far stronger than any Occlumeny skills you could hope to develop," he said. "But I do not intend to teach you to keep_ me_out, foolish boy. It happens that I've found some rather useful applications for the access I have to your mind." The smirk on his lips made Harry flush even darker. Harry thought he knew exactly what Voldemort was referring to, and he hated him for it. "Regardless, Occlumency is a useful art to master for anyone. You will learn Legilimency as well, once you have mastered Occlumency."

Harry swallowed. Voldemort clearly expected a lot from him, and he found a ridiculous part of himself hoping that he could live up to the other man's expectations. It seemed as though Voldemort was reading his thoughts, however—(_and he probably is_)—for Voldemort chose that moment to unexpectedly reassure him.

"You underestimate yourself, Harry," he said quietly, and he looked as though giving encouragement was so unfamiliar to him that it was almost painful. "If you have even the slightest of magical abilities, I expect that you will advance adequately. I happen to be one of the most accomplished Legilimens of this century, so it will not be for a lack of proper instruction."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Harry mumbled, staring at his feet and willing the blush off of his face. Did he actually care about _impressing_ Voldemort?

"We will practice for one hour every day in this room," the man said curtly, any hint of encouragement draining from his voice as he stood up. "Your wand will be returned to you for this hour only."

Harry nearly gaped at him. He would get his wand back?

"Well how did you expect to perform magic without your wand, you foolish boy?" Voldemort snapped, and Harry only just managed to stop himself from blushing again at his stupidity. "Here," he said, and when Harry looked at the other man's outstretched hand, he was holding Harry's wand between his fingers.

The cool wood of his wand practically sang beneath his skin as Harry wrapped his fingers around it, magic pulsing through his veins. _Nothing like playing prisoner to make you appreciate your magic_, Harry thought, grinning gratefully as he twirled it between his thumb and his pointer. He closed his eyes, reveling in the sensation. For a moment, it was almost easy to forget where he was, to just bask in this contentment of being a boy with his wand and his magic.

When Harry looked back up at Voldemort, he almost thought that he saw a momentary flicker of happiness behind the man's scarlet eyes.

But it had fled as quickly as it had arrived, and after a few moments, Harry could convince himself that he had never even seen it there at all.


	16. III:4

Warnings: Slash, sexual content, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: A voice whispers to Harry in the still of the night, when he is on the verge of sleep and at his most vulnerable. Rated M for HP/LV slash.

A/N: Hi guys! SO this is like the third time that I've actually rewritten this entire chapter and I'm still not happy with it. It ended up evolving into some shameless smut to try to make up for the fact that I've been so busy (I only have one midterm left! So I should be back to updating regularly again soon!), but that doesn't even feel right, and I'm just really not that happy with this. I really think I need a beta to try to get some fresh eyes on my chapters before I post them here.

Speaking of which, if anyone at all is interested in that sort of thing, pleeeease send me along a PM or something and let me know. This is my first fic, and I really don't have anyone to read over this stuff or bounce ideas off of or anything (not to mention half the time I'm taking a stab in the dark with a lot of this). I've been poking about the website's collection of beta readers, but HP/LV is such an unusual ship and I'm having trouble finding someone. So ... please? I'll bake you things! :)

Anyway, here's a proper apology about the wait. And this chapter, if it's total crap. Thanks, as always, for all of the wonderful reviews. You guys are totally great :) Happy reading!

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><p>4.<p>

"The key to successfully performing Occlumency is relaxation."

Voldemort's words had somehow transformed back into the smooth, silky tones of the voice that had haunted his dreams, trickling down Harry's body almost tangibly. It took a moment before Harry could force himself to focus.

"I know all that already," Harry said, trying not to sound impatient. "Clear my mind, empty my senses—"

"And how exactly do you clear your mind, Harry?" Voldemort cut him off. "Enlighten me."

"Er …" Harry bit his lip. "I … try not to think about anything."

"It would seem as though you do that on a regular basis," Voldemort snapped back at him, and Harry shrank away, trying not to feel hurt.

"One does not simply 'stop thinking,'" Voldemort said when Harry did not respond, but his voice had lost some of its edge. "If there is anything that I have learned from mulling about in your mind, Harry, it is that you of all people certainly have … much to think about."

Harry supposed that this was a lot nicer than saying that his brain was 'bubbling over with revolting sentiment,' but he did not bother to thank Voldemort for this distinction.

"So then what do you think I should do?" Harry grumbled. "It's not exactly easy to kick back and relax when you're at the top of the Dark Lord's hit list."

Voldemort looked at him strangely for a few moments before he sighed audibly. "Put your wand down, Harry. We will have to try some non-magical exercises before you are competent enough to even begin thinking about Occlumency."

Harry felt another surge of hurt flare up inside of him at this, but he bit his lip, remaining silent. Reluctantly, he placed his wand on the coffee table in front of the sofa, sad to have to put it down so soon after being reunited with it.

The Dark Lord was staring at Harry with that unusual glint in his red eyes again, the one that Harry didn't quite recognize. The boy was possessed with the sudden urge to grab his wand again—how on earth did Voldemort expect him to relax while he was standing in the same room as the man who had hunted him for his entire life?—but he fought it down, standing his ground and waiting for the other man to speak.

"As I was saying before I was interrupted," Voldemort said at length, "you must be able to relax your entire body in order to successfully perform Occlumency."

Harry looked steadily back at him, not sure how to respond to this less than useful comment. _Obviously, _was the first thing that came to mind, but Harry had a feeling that Voldemort would not appreciate that, so he clenched his jaw and kept his mouth shut.

"You will follow my directions carefully, Harry, is that understood?" Voldemort came to stand directly in front of him, and there was something in his eyes that seemed almost … predatory. Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. "It may not be important for something so simple as Occlumency, but you would do well to learn to follow my instructions swiftly and to the letter for when we advance to more dangerous arts."

_Hell if you really think I'll ever cast a Dark spell._

"I can do that," he replied quietly, not looking away from Voldemort's gaze.

"Alright, then: close your eyes."

The command was simple enough. Harry's eyelids fluttered nervously shut, and he suddenly felt very vulnerable, standing there in the middle of this room with no wand and no eyesight. He shifted uncomfortably as the floorboards creaked, indicating that Voldemort was walking around him.

A whispered spell, a whoosh of air. Harry nearly yelped when his shirt vanished from his chest, leaving him naked from the waist up.

"I really wish you'd stop doing that," Harry ground out, cheeks burning as he crossed his arms hurriedly over his torso, but he continued to obediently keep his eyes pressed shut. A low chuckle rolled across Harry's skin from somewhere to his right, raising goosebumps across Harry's flesh.

"It astonishes me how shy you can still be," Voldemort's honeyed voice murmured, following the laughter across the floor. The boy squirmed, and he squeezed his arms around himself tighter, flushing and willing his cock to stay flaccid.

How could such an awful situation make Harry so disgusted and excited at the same time? Not only was Harry queer—and there was no use denying this now, he really truly _enjoyed_Voldemort's hands (and his mouth) on him, around him, inside of him—but he also got some sort of perverse enjoyment out of being humiliated and naked in front of his worst enemy as well. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Be still."

Harry ceased his squirming at once, but he was still extremely conscious of the cool air against his bare flesh, of the creaking of the floor as Voldemort continued to walk around him. Harry's pulse was gradually quickening, and he wasn't sure if it was because he was more afraid of feeling Voldemort's wand or Voldemort's lips against him at any moment.

"Harry, you need to at least make a small effort to be calm," the Dark Lord chastised him softly, his voice somewhere to Harry's left now.

The boy swallowed, and squeezed his eyes tighter. "It's difficult."

"You are going to have to perform Occlumency in a variety of difficult situations, Harry." But it was clear from Voldemort's voice that he was quite enjoying this. _Snarky hypocritical bastard_. "Let's try some basic relaxation exercises. I want you to take a deep breath in, count to three, and then exhale slowly."

Harry's tongue flicked out to wet his lips, which were still painfully dry. He complied, breathing in, counting, and then exhaling slowly.

"Yes, Harry, very good," the man said, his voice floating to Harry from his right. "Just like that. Concentrate only on the sound of your breathing, on the sensation of air filling up and leaving your lungs."

Slowly, the speed of his pulse began to diminish as Harry focused on his breathing. Such a simple thing, and yet he was certainly beginning to feel much calmer than he had five minutes ago. It was not long before he was enraptured by the steady rhythm of his lungs, forgetting momentarily about what he was doing, where he was, even what he had been so concerned about a few minutes before.

"Imagine all of your tension melting away," Voldemort murmured, the velvet of his voice somewhere close behind Harry, soothing and smooth. Harry obeyed, picturing it in his mind, and it made him feel lighter, somehow, almost weightless.

"_Relax, Harry_," and the voice was in his mind now, surrounding him, loosening his muscles and his thoughts and pulling him into a dark, warm abyss. He was reminded vaguely of Voldemort coaxing him to sleep, once upon a time, with those same words, and they had the same intended effect on Harry now. The boy felt his lips part slightly, and he swayed where he was standing, his breathing deep and calm, his pulse a slow, steady beat in his chest.

"_Remember this,"_ the voice whispered to him as warm fingers suddenly slid along the bare skin of his shoulders, across the back of his neck. He could feel Voldemort standing directly behind him, just as he could feel Voldemort swimming in his mind, and he realized distantly that neither presence bothered him. "_Remember this sensation, this peace. Store it away so that you can recall it again in the future."_

Hands ghosted over Harry's shoulder-blades, and he found himself inordinately pleased with the lack of a shirt separating Voldemort's fingers from his skin. They began to work at the muscles in his back, and the boy found himself restraining a soft moan of relief as they found the tension in his muscles and melted it with firm, delicious pressure.

"_You are completely in control of your emotions right now, Harry," _but how could that be? He was practically floating away, he was so comfortable and calm; Voldemort could have done anything to him right now, and Harry would have let him, powerless to stop it, welcoming it, even.

"_You are detached, separate from yourself. Look at your mind as an observer; see yourself as I do."_

Harry tried to concentrate, expecting resistance, but instead he found that it was surprisingly easy to do so; he had nothing else to think about right now, after all. A part of him almost thought that his worries would have vanished entirely, but, although he had to poke around a little bit to find them, they certainly were still there.

It was so much _simpler_ to look at them this way, though, without all of the emotions involved. Harry's mind had never felt so clear.

Fingers continued to knead gently at the muscles in his shoulders, moving down to his lower back. Harry sighed, forgetting for a moment what he was supposed to be doing, and leaned back into the soothing, relaxing touches.

"_Now I want you to take your memories, and bury them deep in your mind,_" instructed the voice, reminding him that there was more to this than the hands rubbing across his skin, than his steady, measured inhales and exhales of cool air. "_You are in full control of your emotions."_

Harry wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to 'bury his memories in his mind'—memories weren't physical things, after all, that you could hide in the ground with a shovel—but he did his best to try anyway. It was easier to handle his thoughts, now that there were no emotions attached to them. He could at least place them all on the same level, instead of allowing the more dangerous ones to clamor for attention at the forefront of his brain.

"Very good, Harry," and this time the voice was murmured low in his ear, causing a shiver to wash down his body. "You're catching on rather quickly. Open your eyes."

Letting one last slow, heavy breath leave his lips, the boy opened his eyes, wincing at how bright the room had suddenly become.

"How do you feel?" Voldemort's hands were still smoothing up and down his sides, and Harry tried unsuccessfully to suppress another shudder.

"Peaceful," Harry admitted truthfully; he could not remember ever feeling so relaxed in his life.

"I believe you are adequately prepared to begin practicing Occlumency now," said Voldemort, his voice still low and silky and something else. Harry's tongue came out to wet his lips unconsciously again; why was his mouth still so damn dry?

Voldemort let his fingers settle for a moment on Harry's hips, rubbing, before they pushed him gently forward. "Pick up your wand and face me."

"Right," said Harry, trying to retain his calm as sudden uncertainty began to well in his stomach. He had been awful at Occlumency when he had practiced with Snape; how was Voldemort so sure that Harry would be able to pick up on it so quickly?

"Relax, Harry," the other man said as Harry turned around to face him. This proved even harder, however, now that he was looking at Voldemort straight on again. How could a man look so regal when he was just standing still? Voldemort was tall and pale and graceful, his long, slender fingers curled around his own wand, and Harry found himself dumbstruck once again by the sheer _power _of this man, holding life and death and mind-blowing pleasure in the very tips of his fingers.

"I will be gentle," Voldemort said softly, reassuringly. "And I will not take advantage of the strength of our connection. I will rely on my abilities alone."

Harry swallowed, reminding himself that the Dark Lord was talking about _Occlumency—_although, right about now, Harry didn't think he would protest to Voldemort using his abilities somewhere a little more tangible than inside Harry's mind.

"_Legilimens_," said Voldemort.

_Shit. _Harry had been caught off guard. His fingers flexed against his wand desperately as he scrambled to compose himself, to remember the calming waves of relaxation, but it was much harder to do this with someone skimming across the front of your mind.

And it was different, this _skimming_, from what Harry had been experiencing the past few months during Voldemort's invasion. Rather than easily flowing in and out of his thoughts, diving as deep as he wanted, as though wading through a pool of water, Voldemort was peeling back his mind like the layers of an onion. At least he was, indeed, being much slower and more gentle than Snape had ever been in their private lessons, barely going past the surface.

_Snape_. The very thought incensed him. And it was as simple as that single idea for Harry to completely lose control of the situation.

His most recent thoughts tumbled into Voldemort's fingers, beginning with the Potions Master yelling at him and throwing him bodily out of his office, glowering at him from across the dungeons, deducting points for no good reason, murdering Harry's Headmaster, mentor, friend.

And then they morphed, horribly, into images of Voldemort himself, standing in the living room, looking tall and powerful and dangerous. But instead of raising his wand to enter Harry's mind, this Voldemort stalked across the room and shoved Harry against the wall, taking Harry's mouth viciously in a deep, hot kiss. This Voldemort shoved his thigh forcibly between Harry's legs and ground hard and slow against his erection, winding his fingers in Harry's hair and pulling his head back and attacking his throat. Images of Voldemort began spilling through Harry's mind, like water bursting through a dam—of the man tearing at his clothes the night before, of his eyes burning into Harry's own as he licked his way down Harry's stomach, of the man pinning him to his bed and thrusting into him until Harry finally gave in and_ moaned_ and—

_Oh, fuck_. His thoughts fell off abruptly as Voldemort vanished from his mind, leaving Harry alone, half-naked, blushing, and quite aroused in the middle of Voldemort's living room.

_Did I really just make that noise aloud_? He wanted to groan again—in embarrassment, this time—at the horror of what had just happened. But instead, he only stared at his feet, at the carpet, at his hands, _anywhere_ except for at the man that he had so obviously just been fantasizing about.

"Well done, Harry," Voldemort drawled, clearly entertained, from across the room. Harry blushed harder, closing his eyes and hating himself even as his cock seemed to jump at the sound of Voldemort's voice. "No, truly," and Merlin, the man was nearly purring at him.

Harry rolled his bottom lip between his teeth. Did Voldemort really feel the need to mock him right now?

A few creaks of the floorboards, and then fingers brushed lightly against his chin, his jaw. Harry's eyes were drawn irresistibly to look up into Voldemort's, but he did not find any hint of ridicule in the gaze staring back at him.

"I believe you are quite ready to attempt some significantly more … _advanced _exercises," mused the Dark Lord, a smirk briefly dancing across lips that were suddenly very close to Harry's own.

"I—I'm not sure what you mean," Harry said, hating himself for the tremor in his voice. "I was absolute shit just now."

"Ah, on the contrary," Voldemort murmured, fingers brushing lightly across Harry's lips, "I think that we can put this development to good use."

The man's fingers left Harry's mouth to clasp around his wrist, pulling him across the room to the couch. "You see, Harry," Voldemort said as he pushed Harry gently onto the sofa, "should you ever need to perform Occlumency, there's no telling the sort of dangerous situations in which you may find yourself."

Harry's heart was beating hard inside his chest, and he swallowed, suddenly very nervous. Voldemort really expected him to try again? Wasn't it obvious that he couldn't be any further from relaxed right now?

A knee parted his thighs, sliding between them, and Voldemort pushed Harry back firmly against the cushions. "The next phase of your lesson is for you to attempt Occlumency when you are thoroughly… distracted."

Lips brushed against Harry's ear, and the boy inhaled sharply, his heart jumping into his throat. Oh man oh man oh man, how was he supposed to relax with Voldemort on top of him like this, with his knee so very close to Harry's groin and his lips against Harry's throat and _oh, _was that his tongue?

"Relax for me, Harry," the man murmured against his neck, and fingers slid up the sides of Harry's torso, scraping across his chest and brushing against his nipples. The boy squirmed, suddenly feeling very hot and short of breath.

"I could … I could hardly do it … without all of this," said Harry breathlessly.

"A learning experience, then," Voldemort said, his voice low, and a moment later, his lips were crushed against Harry's own, coaxing Harry's mouth open and nearly fucking Harry's lips with his tongue. Harry shuddered against the weight of the other man's body as Voldemort's fingers found his jeans and made short work of his belt.

Not a moment later, warm fingers had curled around his cock, stroking slowly, firmly, up and down the length of him.

"_Oh,_" breathed Harry against Voldemort's mouth, and he tossed his head to the side as he struggled for breath. It was so simple, just the touch of a hand on his prick, just like Harry had touched it on his own so many times before—but _Merlin_, it was so_ different _like this. Voldemort seemed to know exactly what to do to, how fast to go, how hard to squeeze, just to make a hot flush break out across Harry's skin.

"I do hope you're concentrating," the older man said, amusement plain in his voice, before his mouth began to trail hot, wet kisses down the right side of Harry's throat. The hand on his erection slowed down a bit as Voldemort traced his tongue languidly along Harry's collarbone, before the tip of his tongue dragged slowly down the center of Harry's chest, down his stomach, down to … _oh _…

Voldemort abruptly removed his hand from Harry's jeans, and the boy might have whined from the loss of contact if the man hadn't seized Harry's arms and pulled him gracefully off the couch. Moments later, Harry was sprawled across the carpet on his back, the Dark Lord kneeling above him, his piercing, fiery gaze roaming slowly over Harry's body. The boy squirmed uncomfortably, and he couldn't help but wonder if Voldemort was ever going to stop looking at him like he was an unwrapped Christmas present come early.

"You are mine," Voldemort said simply, and Harry wondered if the statement was unprovoked or if it was a response to what he had just been thinking.

Harry might have protested feebly at that moment—he most certainly did not belong to anyone, least of all Voldemort, and hadn't they straightened this out yesterday?—but was sufficiently distracted when his jeans and underwear vanished off of his body, his leaking erection springing free into the cool air.

"Are you ready, Harry?" Voldemort murmured, deliberately moving his hips so that his robes were gliding teasingly over Harry's erection. "We're going to practice now." His fingers flitted delicately across Harry's inner thigh, deliberately avoiding the boy's swollen member, but his eyes never left Harry's face.

"What do you think would be the most effective distraction for the purposes of this lesson?" the Dark Lord asked. Harry wished dearly that Voldemort wouldn't expect him to respond to such long sentences in this state.

"Um …" Harry blinked, breathed in sharply as those fingers moved in so _close _and then darted away again. "Well, um, I …" His mind was reeling with sensations, his prick was throbbing almost painfully, and Harry was finding it very difficult to form coherent thoughts, nevermind translate them into speech. "I … er …"

The fingers ran slowly up and around his cock. Harry's hips jerked involuntarily.

"Yes?" Up and down his cock again, the time with the slightest pressure of a fingernail.

Harry couldn't stop it, then—a low, breathy moan escaped from his lips, his back arching involuntarily off of the floor with the _need _for something to be touching him _right now._

In an instant, the other man was upon him, pressing himself against Harry's naked body with the full length of his own. Voldemort assaulted Harry's mouth with teeth and tongue, pinning him to the floor, before sliding down and settling between the boy's thighs.

"Pay attention," the man growled, and Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, looking up and locking his gaze with the Dark Lord's.

Voldemort's fingertips ghosted torturously over the head of Harry's cock, and the boy nearly whimpered, trying not to thrust into his hand, to give him that satisfaction. Still staring into Harry's eyes, Voldemort dipped his head just so until his mouth was barely hovering over his member.

"Are you focusing, Harry?" Voldemort murmured, his lips so close to Harry's prick that he could feel the man's breath drifting over it. _No_, Harry thought, but he nodded dumbly anyway, certain he would tell the Dark Lord just about anything right now.

A tongue darted out to flick against Harry's leaking slit, and the boy exhaled a shaky, fast breath. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying not to moan.

"_Legilimens_."

Voldemort flooded into Harry's mind again, and Harry had just enough time to process once more how _different_ this was from the past few months—less about sharing an intimate connection, and more about taking and withdrawing—before wet heat engulfed him whole and all of Harry's concentration went into trying not to cry out.

"_Show me how it feels, Harry_," Voldemort beckoned to him inside of his head, his mouth otherwise preoccupied. "_Open up to me."_

Wasn't he supposed to be practicing closing himself off? But, oh, there was Voldemort's tongue, running flatly along the underside of his cock before swirling around the head, and Harry gave up resisting.

_I'll never get enough of this_, he thought as he repressed the urge to thrust up into the heat of the man's mouth, whimpering when the head of his cock met with the back of the Dark Lord's throat. How was he so close already? Voldemort had only been touching him all of thirty seconds, and yet the boy was teetering dangerously close to the edge. Lights popped behind Harry's eyelids as his enemy skillfully slid up and down his straining prick.

And Voldemort could see all of it. The Dark Lord's presence was heavy and intoxicating on the boy's overloaded brain. Harry could feel the other man drinking up his arousal like a man dying of thirst, and he wondered briefly if Tom Riddle had ever felt the way that Harry did right now, powerless beneath someone else's tongue.

"_Think about me inside of you," _the voice instructed, smooth and seductive and caked in the arousal that was flowing though Harry's thoughts. The boy groaned low in his throat as images invaded his head: Voldemort leaning over him, throwing back his legs, pounding into him hard and slow and long. He felt his prick jump in his enemy's mouth, which was still working slowly up and down on him.

And then, oh _shit_, Voldemort was actually _humming _around his cock now, swallowing him to the hilt. Harry's toes curled against the carpet, sure that he must be breaking the skin on his lip from biting down so hard, because now Voldemort was moving his head faster and faster up and down Harry's throbbing erection, brilliant and hot and tight and—

"_Mine,_" Voldemort hissed inside of Harry's reeling mind.

"_Oh_," Harry gasped, and, hips bucking of their own accord, he came, still inside Voldemort's mouth, swearing and gasping and writhing and lost to the power of the man on top of him.

Harry's wand rolled away from his flexing fingers. He was only vaguely aware when Voldemort plucked it from the floor; the man's other hand was still stroking Harry's thigh soothingly as Harry slowly came back down to earth, his heart still pounding a tattoo against his ribcage.

"Good work, Harry," the other man said at length, his lips resting against Harry's cock, which was still twitching as the blood slowly came back to the boy's brain. Good work? Harry suddenly remembered what the objective of all of this had been, and he blushed as he turned his eyes hopelessly up at the ceiling.

"That was utter rubbish," Harry mumbled, quite embarrassed. He had failed to keep the Dark Lord from his thoughts; in fact, he had rather welcomed him with open arms.

Voldemort chuckled darkly from above him. "Nonsense," the man said, rising gracefully to his feet. "I thought you did quite well."

"But," Harry stammered, sitting up slowly. "But I couldn't keep you out—you were touching me, and it was," and he swallowed, his cheeks burning even harder at the admission, "it was too much."

"Do you truly believe I would ever let anyone else touch you like that?" Voldemort said, eyes flashing dangerously as Harry climbed to his feet. Harry felt a chill pass through him from the threat in the other man's eyes. "They would be dead before they even laid a finger on you."

Harry stared blankly back at him, confused. "But you said … that I would be in a variety of situations, and—"

"I assure you, Harry," Voldemort cut him off, turning to look Harry directly in the eye, "that I will never allow you to be in such a situation with anyone else. Besides," and here, his eyes flashed with amusement instead of anger, "I hardly believe that another would be able to evoke that sort of reaction from you."

As Harry stood there, spluttering indignantly, Voldemort pulled out his wand and waved it, and a new outfit appeared on the couch in what seemed to be Harry's size.

"I must leave for the afternoon," the man said, adjusting his robes and not looking at all like he had just thoroughly debauched a seventeen-year-old boy with his mouth. "There are wards placed on every exit to the house, and all of the doors will be locked. And Harry," the Dark Lord added, narrowing his eyes, "do not forget that I will know if you even think about leaving."

Harry could not tell if this was simply a veiled threat or if Voldemort really knew that Harry had been dwelling so constantly on escaping. Either way, he thought as he nodded, he needed to learn how to be more aware of his enemy's presence in his mind.

Voldemort whipped out his wand again, and Harry flinched involuntarily, afraid for a horrible instant that the man had heard what he had just been thinking about. But Voldemort only pointed the wand at the doorway and flicked it.

"The door upstairs is unlocked now," Voldemort said. "You and your friends may utilize the kitchen in my absence if you must." He gestured to the new clothes folded on the couch. "Those will have to do for now until we can buy you adequate new robes; those clothes you were wearing today were far too ratty."

Harry was struck by a sudden pang of tenderness for the man standing there. Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord of the wizarding world, was so powerful and tall and cold and awful; and yet he had a soft laugh, and touched Harry gently, and let Harry be with his friends, and even cared about the clothes that he was wearing.

Voldemort had been a boy once, with tousled black hair and silver eyes and a smile very much like Harry's own. Tom Riddle had worn second-hand clothes, too, and been mistreated by his Muggle caretakers, just as Harry had. No one had ever cared about that lonely orphan, just as no one had ever cared about Harry before, outside of the fact that he was destined to kill the greatest wizard of all time.

And now that wizard was standing in front of Harry now, talking about buying new robes for him. Why did Voldemort care about Harry?

_Voldemort doesn't care about you, _a small part of his mind reminded him. _He's a murderer, Harry. He would have killed you-he's _tried_ to kill you!_

And yet …

"I will return in the evening," Voldemort said at length, when it became clear that Harry was not going to respond. The boy opened his mouth to speak, but the Dark Lord had already turned on his heel and was walking out of the living room. The banging of the front door indicated his exit.

Harry blinked, and touched his mouth, confused—not about their lessons, not about the clothes, but about what he found under his fingers. Because, despite all of his earlier promises that he would never feel grateful towards the other man, the words that had almost left his lips had been: _Thank you_.


	17. III:5

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

A/N: I'm so sorry about the wait for this chapter. A family member passed away last week, so it's been really hard to find time to sit down and write. Thank you so much to everybody who's reviewed and offered to help me with beta-ing and whatnot. As a result of my shameless begging last chapter, I've got a really lovely beta now who has been a wonderful help so far! So a very big thank you to her. :)

And also, I'd really like to thank Paimpont for recommending Freefall in the latest chapter of "Surrender." Paimpont's stories are absolutely amazing; they're actually what got me into this ship in the first place, so if you haven't read any of them yet, you really, really should go check them out!

So, without further ado .. Chapter 17! We've got some more Horcrux action in this one, and I really stretch something that Jo said in an interview once about the locket, but, hey, what else is fanfiction for? I hope you enjoy :)

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><p>5.<p>

Harry was confused.

Upstairs, his friends still sat in their new prison. Granted, it was much more comfortable than the basement in which they had spent the night, but it was still a prison nonetheless. The whole house was a prison, Harry tried to remind himself. He couldn't afford to forget that.

But Voldemort had unlocked their door. Harry could go upstairs now and show them around the cottage, tiny as it was, and maybe they could have a spot of breakfast together. They could try to laugh over the horrendous argument that they had had the day before, Harry could tell them that the Dark Lord drank Earl Grey tea in between his torture sessions, and then they could sit and quietly plan their escape until Voldemort's inevitable return.

Harry closed his eyes. He was surprised to find that he felt quite sick at the notion.

_They won't understand_, a part of him thought nastily. _They're naive and ignorant. The only reason they're here is because they expect you to save them, to save everyone. Harry Potter on his galloping white horse, here to save the world from the big bad Dark Lord_.

And as much as Harry wished that laughing it all off would make him feel better-the Dark Lord's preferences in tea, and his hypocritical criticisms of Harry's emotions, and the hot looks that he sent Harry every few moments, ha ha-he knew that it wouldn't. And what was worse, he didn't _want _to tell Ron and Hermione about any of it. Not because he thought they wouldn't laugh it off-they certainly would, as long as Harry didn't explain how much further Voldemort had gone beyond the smoldering glances-but because, for some reason, Harry didn't want to share this new person he had found with anyone, least of all his friends.

They wouldn't understand.

And even if they did, Harry still wasn't sure if he would tell them. Because in some strange, insane, mind-boggling way, Voldemort understood Harry. Voldemort didn't expect Harry to be the great, good Harry Potter, the Boy Who Keeps On Living. Voldemort had experienced Harry's raw emotions; he had tumbled through Harry's thoughts and desires and fears. For all of his criticisms of Harry's behavior, Voldemort knew Harry better than his friends ever would.

And Harry didn't want to share that with anyone. He had finally met someone that understood him, who had been through what Harry had been through. A half-blood, an orphan, an outcast. Harry wouldn't give up the brief silver flashes in those red pupils for anything.

_This is sick_, he thought, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. _How did my life get so fucked up?_

But then again, Harry had always been anything but normal.

A few minutes later, he was standing dressed in the sitting room. Voldemort had conjured a comfortable pair of trousers and a simple green sweater for him before he had taken his leave. Harry had pulled the shirt onto his head rather reluctantly; he didn't have another piece of clothing in his wardrobe that was in Slytherin's colors, but he figured that wearing this particular shade of green was preferable at least to trying to explain to Ron and Hermione why he was walking around shirtless.

Ron and Hermione. The thought of seeing them was threatening another headache, but he supposed it was time he made his way upstairs.

Before he had gotten halfway to the door, however, he felt an insistent tugging in his lungs, dragging him in the opposite direction. Frowning, Harry turned around, confused. His eyes immediately fell on the golden chest in the corner of the room.

_The chest_. How could he have been so stupid? Here he was, with Voldemort out of the house in what could be a very rare opportunity, and he had been about to go make small talk with his silly friends before finding out what the other man was hiding in there! Harry knew that the locket had been tucked away inside-he had seen Voldemort put it into the chest himself-but Harry had been able to catch a glimpse of something silver as well before the Dark Lord had snapped it shut.

This could be his only chance.

Harry walked quickly across the room, the warm pulsing getting stronger as he neared it. Here was his opportunity. It couldn't take longer than a few moments to see what was in the chest, anyway, and then he could return upstairs to his friends.

Swallowing, the boy touched the fine replica of the golden snake on the front, stroking down the center of it as he had seen Voldemort do. The eyes of the small animal immediately glowed red in response to his touch.

"_Open," _Harry hissed.

Fire seemed to light behind the pupils of the snake. It began to twist, lifelike, around the large lock in the center of the chest, chasing its long, golden tail. When it had returned to its original position, the center of the lock fell open, and Harry's breath caught in his throat as he lifted the lid.

Three beautiful items sat inside. The first, the locket, was clearly what was drawing him the most, and the warmth in his chest began to spiral with desire to be reunited with the damned thing. Harry tore his eyes away from it, however, to instead examine the other two items inside.

At first glance, Harry thought that one of them was a beautiful, silver crown, but then he realized that only men wear crowns, and this was a decidedly feminine object. A tiara then, perhaps? Shining jewels and stones were embedded in the silver, and Harry could not resist brushing the tiara with his fingers, surprised when it was warm to the touch. He recoiled quickly at the shock, frowning.

And then it hit him. Another Horcrux. This was another Horcrux, another piece of Voldemort's soul. Which could only mean …

Harry held his breath as he reached for the other object in the chest. It was made out of gold, like the locket, except that it was a large trophy, like one that he might have seen in the trophy room in Hogwarts. It was much more beautiful than any of the trophies Harry had ever seen, however. He tried hard to remember if he had ever seen it before in any of his detentions polishing the cups with Filch, but his mind failed to turn up anything relevant.

He touched the cup gently, prepared for the electric warmth that met his fingertips this time. Even as he traced the jewels across the rim of the cup, however, his eyes were drawn once more to the locket. It was almost as though it was aware of his presence there, calling out to him …

Harry blinked and realized that his fingers were just hoovering over the surface of the locket. Did he really want to touch it? He had been unable to control himself yesterday as soon as it had made contact with his skin. What if it possessed him again?

_What if_? What was the worst that could possibly happen, anyway? Last time, it had brought Harry straight to Voldemort, but he was already at Voldemort's mercy at this point. What harm could come from it? And besides, perhaps spending more time with Tom Riddle's memory would help him understand the man he had become. Maybe Harry could gain some information from the encounter.

_To help you defeat him_, Harry reminded himself, a little half-heartedly.

He let his fingers brush against the locket's smooth surface, holding his breath.

Warmth spilled across his hand and his wrist, the reaction immediately more intense and familiar than that which had been invoked by the cup and the tiara. Harry grasped the locket without a second thought, lifting it carefully out of the chest, soaking in the pleasant waves washing over his body. He tried to rein in the sensations even as he was lulled deeper into the locket's spell, sucking in a breath as the liquid pleasure reached all the way down to his toes.

He heard the Parseltongue fall from his lips unbidden, as natural as exhaling.

The locket _clicked _softly between his fingers. Mist poured out from the opening, forming the shape of a body as it had the night before. Harry shut his eyes, fingers tightening around the necklace as he fought for control of himself. He grasped uselessly at his thoughts, trying to relax as Voldemort had just instructed him to. This encounter would be entirely for naught if he spent it ogling at his future enemy the whole time.

When Harry opened his eyes, however, he found a pair of sparkling silver ones staring back at him. It was immediately twice as difficult to remember what he had been worrying about.

Tom looked just as handsome as he had the night before, equal parts elegance and grace. His hands were folded in front of him, his head tilted slightly to the side as he examined Harry's face. He looked just as out of place as Voldemort did in this cozy, Mugglish sitting room.

Harry cleared his throat, feeling suddenly awkward as the boy appraised him with a long, sweeping glance.

"Hi," said Harry, unsure of what else to say.

"Hello again, Harry." Tom's voice was as smooth as the one in Harry's head, but it had a quality to it that was more raw, more human, than the hissing tones of Lord Voldemort. The memory's eyes were scrutinizing him intensely, and Harry fought with the sudden urge to turn away from that hot and heavy gaze.

"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you," said Tom at length when Harry didn't respond. Tom did not seem ashamed at this confession, however, but rather perplexed by it, as though he had never encountered such a situation before.

"How can you think?" Harry blurted out, not pausing to give thought to his insensitivity. "You're just a memory."

Tom's lips curled into an unabashed smirk, so very different from the controlled twitching of Voldemort's mouth that Harry was taken aback by it. "Astute observation. I may be a memory, but I can do a lot more than think, Harry."

Harry swallowed. "Oh," he said eloquently. Tom stepped closer to him, the look in his eyes almost predatory. Harry stepped backward, his heart beating wildly, and he knocked into the armchair. He tried desperately to remember why he had summoned the boy out of his locket in the first place. _Information_. Right. "I ... er ... I wanted to ask you some questions."

Tom stepped closer again. He didn't seem like he was listening, Harry noticed, but instead seemed intent on memorizing Harry's face. He locked his eyes with Harry's, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and contemplative. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you," he said again.

Tom's features were so clear this close that the other boy could have been real. Harry found himself fascinated by the rosiness in Tom's lips, entranced by each individual eyelash that rested above those enthralling silver eyes.

"It is quite intriguing, Harry, the similarities between us."

Tom reached out his misty hand and touched Harry's cheek almost reverently, sending rivets of warmth running down Harry's face. Harry's fingers tightened unconsciously around the locket. He had to keep himself grounded in reality to maintain control over his emotions. "That's … what I had some questions about, actually."

"Really," mused Tom, sounding completely uninterested. He walked around to Harry's left, and the boy was reminded eerily of Voldemort walking around him in the same way only a few minutes earlier. "I'm sure there is much that we have to learn about each other."

"Right," said Harry, feeling uncomfortable under Tom's piercing gaze. His thoughts seemed to run away with every sweeping glance of the other boy's darkening eyes. He suddenly felt very stupid, not sure where to begin, but Tom saved him the trouble by speaking first.

"You grew up as an orphan in a Muggle home, Harry." Tom stopped directly in front of Harry, standing barely a foot away from him. His eyes were hungry, excited. "Did you know that I grew up in a Muggle orphanage? They were horrible to me. Were the Muggles horrible to you as well?"

(_night after hungry night in the dank darkness of the cupboard, Uncle Vernon swinging at him in a drunken rage, Dudley pulling back his fist to connect with Harry's nose_)

Harry nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Tom smiled sadly, touching Harry's face again. "But we deserved better than that, Harry." The excitement was growing in his eyes, but when he spoke again, his voice was softer, more serious:

"I've been thinking at great length about why I would choose to make another human, something so unstable and unpredictable, into a vessel for my soul. It angered me, at first, when I realized exactly what you were." His silver eyes flashed scarlet for a moment, and Harry's heart lurched in his chest. Even as a memory, Voldemort's anger was still terrifying.

"It seemed foolish," Tom went on after the fire had cooled behind the silver pools of his eyes, and Harry unconsciously breathed out a soft sigh of relief. "I could not understand why I would ever make such a decision. But the more that I studied you through the eyes of your friends, the more fascinated I became with you. It was a fascination that reached beyond our connection as fellow Horcruxes."

Harry blinked, swallowed. Beyond Horcruxes? This went against everything he had been trying to convince himself about Voldemort's sudden infatuation with him.

"And then it came to me last night, when I could see you at last with my own eyes," said Tom softly. "The resemblance in our lives, our personalities … I must have noticed all of the uncanny similarities between us. I must have decided that you were fit to rule beside me. I've never met someone like you, Harry. I made you into a Horcrux to bind us irreversibly, so that we could truly be equals together, didn't I?"

Harry was left momentarily speechless. Tom Riddle-the_ memory _of Tom Riddle, he reminded himself-thought that the future Voldemort had made Harry into a Horcrux on purpose? Because he thought Harry was his _equal_?

There were a few moments of stunned silence before Harry could close his dangling jaw and find words. He had the hysterical urge to laugh, but, thankfully, he managed to suppress it, pleased when he heard coherent sentences leaving his mouth instead.

"Well … you certainly thought that I was … powerful." Harry tried desperately to find the right way to explain the complicated nuances that made up his life. Tom was listening to him eagerly, almost impatiently, although he was carefully controlling his features to disguise his enthusiasm. "You learned it from a prophecy, see. It said that I would have the power to … vanquish you once I was born."

A flicker of surprise flashed behind the memory's eyes, but it was quickly smothered. "Yes?" said Tom. "Go on."

Harry swallowed. "So you set out to kill me," he said flatly, his voice suddenly void of emotion. "I was only a baby. But … it didn't work. You killed my parents, but when you tried to kill me … the curse rebounded." He lowered his eyes, hating the words that would finish his story. "And a piece of your soul attached itself to me."

Tom was very quiet for a few moments. Harry continued to stare at the carpet, suddenly afraid. Tom had worked out an explanation that had kept himself in control of the entire situation; Harry was scared that the other boy might despise him now for revealing a weakness within himself, and dealing with an angry Voldemort, memory or no, would not prove to be much fun.

"Am I still trying to kill you now?" When Harry chanced a look upward, Tom did not look angry. His eyes were narrowed slightly, and there was something too close to fear behind them for Harry's liking.

_Kill me_? Harry suppressed the urge to snort. "Not exactly," he muttered. "You …_ Voldemort_actually told me just last night that we should … team up together."

A triumphant grin tugged at Tom's lips, another expression that looked very out of place. "That settles it, then," said Tom. "I was right after all. Except for some few minor details, of course."

_Like killing my parents_, _you mean?_Harry thought sullenly, but he nodded anyway, unwilling to curb the pleased expression on Tom's face again.

"We are so similar, you and I." Tom stroked Harry's jaw with nonexistent fingers, looking absolutely enthralled with the smaller boy standing in front of him. "It's the only thing that makes sense."

"We might be very … er … similar, but there are a lot of things that are different about us as well," Harry pointed out, chewing a little on his lip. Tom paused, narrowing his eyes. "That's what I wanted to ask you about."

"Whatever do you mean?" Tom asked. He looked momentarily confused before he was able to manipulate his expression back into neutrality. Harry resisted the urge to smile; years and years of practice would eventually squelch any emotion at all from Voldemort's carefully controlled visage, but the reactions of this younger version here still betrayed him. "I have never met someone who is so much like myself. How could we be different?"

Harry's glance darted downward, suddenly afraid. He needed to word this carefully, but here was his chance; he may not get another opening like this.

"Tom, did you ever know love?"

The other boy blinked. _He's beautiful_, Harry thought, watching the myriad of emotions that passed over Tom's features in quick succession before they settled into deep discomfort. "Love?" the boy spat the word back out at him like it was making his mouth dirty. "Love weakens people; it is for fools. I only care about fear, and power."

"I disagree," Harry responded, determined. He stepped a little closer to the misty memory of Tom, and felt a surge of satisfaction when the other boy stepped back. "Love makes people stronger. The love and loyalty of friends will get you further than any fear that others may have of you."

Tom's eyes flashed dangerously, and it was so strange to see the hardened, warning expressions of Lord Voldemort on the angelic, handsome face of this beautiful boy standing in front of him.

"You sound like Dumbledore," said Tom, his voice still venomous. "He was always going on about his precious _love_."

"And for good reason. It was love that stopped you from killing me sixteen years ago." Harry glared at Tom.

The other boy was struck silent for a moment, once again unable to stop the look of surprise from taking over his face. It was so satisfying, this ability to evoke such reactions from Lord Voldemort. It took so much more effort for Harry to do this to the man as he was today, and it felt very good to consistenly have the upper hand for once.

"But I digress," Harry said after a few moments, yanking the other boy from his thoughts. "You still haven't answered my question, Tom. Did you ever know love?"

Tom frowned, his eyes flashing scarlet again. "I don't know if I would call it that," he said at length, but his voice was wavering slightly as he spoke. "You can see for yourself, if you'd like. I can show you how far _love _has gotten me." He took a step closer, nearly closing the distance between them. "Let me show you."

_Show me? _Harry's heart jumped into his throat. He was reminded vividly of a diary sucking him into a memory from 50 years ago, of the words, '_Let me show you_,' sliding across a yellowed page. Is that what Riddle meant now?

"What do you mean?" said Harry quietly.

Tom smiled, a brilliant sight. "Watch."

The edges of Tom's body suddenly began to blur. The lines of his face and his shoulders were growing fuzzy, like a television losing its signal. But Tom's smile still remained bright and clear on his face as he stepped suddenly forward, closer to Harry, reaching for his hand. Harry was unprepared this time for the intense warmth that overwhelmed him from Tom's proximity, clouding his mind and his senses. The world was growing darker, narrower, balanced upon the inviting smile of that handsome boy.

Distantly, Harry felt himself lift the locket up in the air, holding it open with both of his hands now, and bring it closer to his face.

Suddenly, blinding light burst out of the open locket. Harry would have been forced to turn away had his body not stood rooted, immovable, to the floor. His eyes were watering as the light grew impossibly brighter, taking over his entire line of sight, before he was suddenly tumbling into it, falling, spiraling, his body rolling over on itself in freefall.

He landed flat on his feet in broad daylight on a very crowded street. Harry blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the bright sunlight, when a man carrying a briefcase walked straight through him.

Harry gasped, whirling around to apologize, but the man had not even looked back in his direction. He had disappeared into the crowd.

_They can't see you, you dolt_, Harry thought to himself, resisting the urge to slap his forehead. _You're in a memory. _Smiling a little at his own stupidity, Harry straightened up to take a look around.

A great number of people were jostling about him in business suits, talking loudly and hurrying down the sidewalks. Muggle automobiles from the 1940's sputtered down the street, honking horns in the traffic. A gaggle of children rushed past Harry's right side, giggling. A woman in a skirt chased after them a few moments later, shouting and cursing her heels.

It took Harry a few moments to realize what was strange about this scenario. He was standing here, in Tom Riddle's memory, surrounded by _Muggles_.

Speaking of which, where was Tom?

Harry turned around, still conscious for some reason of knocking into the people around him, even though he knew they would not feel him there. But Harry could not spot the wizard in the crowd of Muggles surging around him, and for a moment he wondered if Tom was really in this memory at all.

And then he saw him, standing in an alcove in an empty storefront. His Muggle clothes, clearly from the orphanage, were not nearly as handsome as the expensive wizarding robes Harry had last seen him wearing. Tom's _face _was just as handsome, though, and he looked even more real now, more solid within this memory.

Harry walked a little closer to the boy, hesitant. Could Tom see him? But the other boy only looked straight through him, his lips set firmly in a line of determination. His silver eyes were narrowed slightly, scanning the crowd of Muggles. Harry knew this expression, and it sent an eerie chill down his spine to see it on Tom's face instead of Voldemort's.

Tom Riddle was on a mission.

Something flickered across Tom's face, and suddenly the boy pushed himself off of the wall and joined the crowd of Muggles walking down the sidewalk. Harry followed close behind, trying to figure out what Tom had spotted in the stream of businessmen, but he could not find anything out of the ordinary. It occurred to him again how strange this was, that Tom was wandering around Muggle London in Muggle clothes. Maybe he was going to his orphanage? But Tom looked to be at least in his early 20's; what would he be going back there for?

His train of thought was interrupted suddenly when Tom took advantage of the traffic light to cross the street. Forgetting again that he was untouchable in this world, Harry hurried after him, afraid to miss the opportunity to cross in the busy traffic. Tom was walking faster now in long determined strides down the sidewalk, his gaze set straight in front of him. He nearly knocked into a Muggle woman pushing a carriage, who squealed indignantly at the close call. Tom paid her no mind, proceeding forward, unwavering in his step. Harry had to run a little to catch up with him.

Then Tom turned abruptly down a dark alleyway. Harry followed him just in time to see the shape of a young man rounding the corner at the other end of the alley, scampering out of sight. Tom swore softly under his breath and picked up his pace; Harry followed suit, wishing he had gotten a better glimpse of the young man. Who could Tom be chasing across Muggle London?

They emerged onto a smaller street, dirtier than the main road that they had just crossed. Many of the stores were empty or boarded up. Harry was reminded creepily of Knockturn Alley, and although he knew they were still in the Muggle world, he could not shake the sense that there was some magic in the air around him.

Tom was looking wildly around the street, frowning. He looked slightly out of breath and more than a little disappointed. For a moment, Harry almost felt a little sorry for him. The young man he had been pursuing was no where to be seen, and there was no mistaking the dismay coloring Tom's handsome face.

"You there!" came a raspy voice from behind them. Harry's hand immediately went to his back pocket, reflexively trying to find his wand, before he remembered that they were in a memory and that he was without a wand anyway.

An older woman, hunched over and limping, crept out of the shadows of one of the storefronts. She was practically drowning underneath layers and layers of ragged cloaks. Harry glanced at Tom and was glad to see that he had had the same reaction: his fingers were also resting casually at his waistband, where his wand must be hidden.

"Hello there, my sweet," the elderly woman croaked, stumbling closer. As she came into the light, Harry could see that her face was wrinkled, and there was a large mole on her forehead.

Tom backed away from her, frowning with disgust. "Get away from me." His voice was surprisingly cool and calm for the anger that Harry saw rolling beneath his carefully collected featured. The woman blinked big, watery brown eyes, taken aback, before she advanced on him again, this time holding out her arm. Harry saw that a variety of necklaces and charms were dangling from it, partially hidden by the cloak.

"Trinkets, charms, necklaces, they'll keep you safe from the war," she rasped, holding her arm out a little wider to better see what was hanging there. Harry frowned. They were in Muggle London; how could this woman know about the war with Grindewald? But then it occurred to him that perhaps she was talking about World War II.

"The war is over, you fool," Tom hissed, glaring. She recoiled, her shrivelled face contorting into a scowl.

"But surely you have a sister, a mother, that a little _magic_might do some good for," she insisted, shaking her arm a little. The necklaces clinked gently against each other.

Harry's eyes widened; was this woman really trying to sell magical charms to Muggles? He vaguely recalled Mr. Weasley talking about frauds trying to scam Muggles with enchanted objects during wartime. Harry wished very violently that this weren't a memory, so that he could step in and prevent this woman from swindling innocent Muggles desperate for protection from the war.

"You don't have the locket that I'm looking for, woman," Tom snapped, his eyes locking on something at the other end of the street. "Now, out of my way."

Tom brushed past her, ignoring the affronted sound that the woman made. He did not look away from the end of the street, walking forward, his lips set in a grim line. He paid no mind to the small Muggle child crying alone in front of one of the empty stores, or the girl no older than thirteen years old in a short, tattered skirt and a shirt far too low-cut for her age, quietly calling out to him, "Only a few pounds, sir, and you can have a go."

Harry shuddered, tearing his gaze from the pitiful sight of the children in the street. They were lost now, probably dead. It was Tom that he was here for. Harry looked up, seeking out what Tom was staring so fixedly at as they walked down the sidewalk.

A boy the same age as Harry was leaning salaciously against a brick wall a little ways down the street. He wore dark trousers that were fit closely to his legs and a vest hanging open with only a high-rise sleeveless shirt underneath, despite the slight chill in the air that promised winter's arrival. He had light auburn hair and pale skin that might have looked unhealthy if it weren't so clear and flawless. Rosy lips were masterfully set into a suggestive smirk, his posture that of a young man without a care in the world.

Only the dark shadows underneath his eyes-which were a very striking color of green, Harry noticed-gave evidence to the unhappiness that plagued this young man's life.

An older man in a Muggle business suit was standing in front of him, and it was to this man that the boy was currently focusing his attention. The man must have been in his early 50's, and Harry noticed with not a small amount of disgust that a wedding band was resting on his ring finger. From the lecherous looks he was giving the boy, however, it was all too clear what his intentions were, regardless of his marital status.

"Get away from him." Tom's voice had an unpleasant, angry edge to it, and Harry turned to look at him, almost having forgotten that his enemy had been standing there. The same disgusted expression that Harry had just been wearing was struggling for control of Tom's face as well.

"Excuse me?" barked the older man, frowning in confusion in Tom's direction. "Who do you think you are?"

"That's no concern of yours," Tom spat, his hand resting on his jean pocket again. "Get away from him now."

The boy in the vest was scowling, his green eyes darting back and forth between Tom and the businessman. He looked like he was about to say something, but when his gaze fell on Tom's hand at his pocket, his jaw clicked shut.

"I was here first!" the businessman said indignantly, standing between Tom and the other boy. "Find your own!"

"I will warn you one more time, Muggle," Tom said, his voice very soft and menacing. "Leave."

Harry swallowed, gaze fixed on Tom's hand, which was clenching against the wand hidden at his hip. He wondered with dismay if Tom had brought him to this memory to witness another murder.

"Nutter," the Muggle man growled. His eyes bulged in a way that was sickeningly reminiscent of Uncle Vernon as he stared at Tom's face. Making a quick decision, the man picked up his briefcase from the sidewalk, sent one last wistful look in the other boy's direction, and walked away, shooting angry glances back at the tall, threatening figure that Tom posed on the street.

Harry let out a slow sigh of relief. No murder today.

But a small part of him whispered, _Don't be so sure about that. _Harry noticed with dismay that the anger Tom had been directing at the married Muggle had only seemed to increase threefold when Tom turned his gaze on boy with the green eyes.

The other boy, to his credit, did not seem at all affected by the potent threat in Tom's silver glare. Instead, his face was still twisted in that awful scowl, and he was nearly shaking with anger.

"He had money, Tom," the boy in the vest said through a clenched jaw. "I haven't eaten in three days, do you know that?"

"I would have offered you breakfast this morning, but as it appears, you had other engagements that needed your attention," Tom responded viciously, his eyes burning with raw anger. Harry was a little taken aback by the intensity of it. He himself had only managed to provoke Voldemort to emotions beyond his control a select few times, and Harry recognized that the fury flashing across Tom's eyes was very near to the brink of Voldemort's capacity for restraint.

The other boy, however, was not taken aback at all. He only sneered, his eyes scanning the street beyond Tom's shoulder before returning to the angry wizard standing in front of him. "Why are you following me, Tom? I thought you'd already be torturing your next victim at this hour, maintaining Hitler's legacy and all that."

Harry's mouth dropped open a little at this. He had never seen anyone speak to Voldemort in such a way and walk away unscathed … except for himself, of course, but that was fortunately a very different sort of situation.

Tom's next words, however, were surprisingly measured and calm. "You left me last night."

The boy in the vest looked momentarily shocked, before his expression contorted into indignant rage. "You _kidnapped _me last night!"

"I do happen to be ... familiar with those responsible for that incident," Tom said, almost patiently, even as an older man passing by was shooting them wary glances at his companion's outburst. "But I myself did nothing of the sort."

"_Incident_?" the boy repeated, dumbfounded. Harry was a little surprised to see tears shining in his emerald eyes. "They tortured me, Tom. I don't even know how they did some of the things that they …" He trailed off, blinking a few times, undoubtedly trying to prevent himself from crying in the middle of the street. Harry felt a surge of sympathy for the boy; he himself had been on the receiving end of more than one Cruciatus in his encounters with Tom's Death Eaters. "And don't even give me any rot about how you're _familiar _with them. Familiar indeed. They respect you. They talked about you like a … a leader."

"I saved you," Tom interrupted, ignoring the accusatory look in the other boy's shining eyes. "I saved you from them. And I want to save you from all of this. You deserve better than all the Mug-" he stopped himself, sneering disgustedly, before continuing, "all the _trash_that prowls this part of the city, Nicholas."

The boy called Nicholas snorted. "What the hell do you know about what I _deserve_?"

Tom snarled. "They approached me when I was at the orphanage, too, Nicholas," he said angrily. "They told me they would adopt me as well, if I agreed to their _terms_. I turned away from it. You could have, too."

"You could afford to!" the other boy yelled, color splotching in his pale cheeks. "You went off to that school every year! I don't have any special talents, Tom! This was my only way out!"

"You can still get out," Tom said softly. If Harry didn't know any better, he would have thought that Tom looked sad. "I can help you, Nicholas."

Nicholas snarled, his eyes wild and angry.

"I don't need your help."

The words sliced through the air like a slap. Harry's eyes widened in surprise. He had never seen Voldemort look so sincere before, and this Muggle prostitute had unknowingly taken the precious gift of Tom's sincerity and crushed it to the sidewalk.

Tom had apparently not been expecting this, either. He stood there, momentarily dumbfounded, before he seemed to remember how to speak.

"Then what do you call that hanging around your neck?" Tom's voice was back to the soft, dangerous tones of the Dark Lord that he was becoming, void of emotion and perfectly controlled. Harry shivered at his drastic change of tone.

The boy called Nicholas raised a pale hand to his throat, where a golden chain peeked out, the rest of the necklace hidden underneath his tank top. Harry's stomach lurched horribly when he recognized the circular shape impressed beneath the cloth.

This Muggle prostitute had Slytherin's locket.

"I call it your repayment," the boy hissed, sneering, "for the services I rendered you last night."

If Tom's shock hadn't been apparent before, it was written as plainly as day across his face now. The future Dark Lord of the wizarding world looked rather pathetic, his mouth hanging slightly agape, eyebrows furrowed. He almost looked … hurt.

"I was not your client," Tom said quietly, his voice strained. "You said that it was … more than that."

"Do you truly think you are the first man I've whispered sweet nothings to in the moonlight?" the boy said mockingly, his words as stinging as the sneer on his face. "Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to take this trinket to a pawn shop. Perhaps I can still pick up another client before evening falls."

And then, to Harry's dread, the boy turned on his heel and walked in the other direction.

Tension hung taut in the air. A Muggle car spluttered by, a man leaning out to catcall at the receding figure of Nicholas the prostitute as he walked away.

A soft, pained noise came from Harry's left. Swallowing, Harry turned to look warily at Tom. The other boy was nearly trembling, his teeth digging into his bottom lip, fists clenched at his sides. For a moment, Harry thought that there were tears glistening in his silver eyes. But then Tom's eyelids fluttered shut, squeezing tight for a few seconds and hiding any emotion lingering there from Harry's view.

When they opened again, the beautiful silver irises were bleeding red.

Tom's fingers clenched sporadically at his side for a moment before they grasped the wand tucked in his jeans. Tom's face was eerily calm as he withdrew it from his waistband. He did not remove his eyes from Nicholas' retreating silhouette, and when Tom began to walk slowly after him, his steps measured and determined, a lump began to form in Harry's throat.

He found himself wishing again that this was not merely a memory. It occurred to him that he felt compelled to do a great many things at that moment: he wanted to grab Tom's shoulder and turn him around and beg him to stop, to try to capture the human emotion Harry had seen in his face moments before, to wrap his arms around him and keep him here, as he was, in this world; he wanted to go over and slap the Muggle who had destroyed Tom's ability to care, to help, to be sincere; but most of all, he wanted to get in between them and stop what he knew was about to happen.

But Harry couldn't do any of it. He could only stand there on the sidewalk and watch as the memory of Tom Riddle seized the back of the Muggle's vest and pulled him bodily into an adjacent alley. Harry did not bother following Tom into the alleyway, nauseous already with anticipation for what was about to take place. He was not particularly keen to witness Voldemort taking another life.

_Perhaps he won't_, Harry thought hopefully, his stomach churning. _Perhaps that was what this memory was meant to show me: that Voldemort was forgiving once, that he did indeed know love._

But a flood of green light spilled from the alleyway onto the street, and Harry forced himself to look away, to try to banish the pain wrenching in his gut.

_What did you expect, Harry?_ he thought to himself as he turned away, chiding to himself in a way that sounded sickeningly like Voldemort's voice in his head. _The Dark Lord knows no mercy._

The sidewalk began to dissolve beneath his feet, the colors of the buildings around him flying away. The world became that blinding, horrible white again, before Harry blinked and found himself in a room.

It was relatively small, almost cozy. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a round wooden table sat near a refrigerator and a stove, with a single chair pushed up underneath it. A twin bed was positioned underneath the only window in the room. It was clearly a studio apartment, sparsely furnished.

Tom Riddle, donned in his wizarding robes once more, stood looking out of the window. Harry frowned, pressing his lips together and wondering what else Tom could possibly have to show him on the subject of love. It was all too clear now that Voldemort's life had been very much lacking in that area, aside from a tryst with a prostitute that had ended in murder, and that hardly counted as a love affair, didn't it?

"I cared about him," Tom said quietly from the window, startling Harry from his thoughts. Harry looked around the room, confused; no one else was there. Was Voldemort talking to himself?

Tom turned around suddenly, and the gaze that he pinned Harry with made it very clear that the other boy could see him there.

"I knew him from the orphanage," Tom said suddenly, the expression in his gray eyes full of pain. _Good luck that did him, in the end._Harry somehow didn't think that was a great response, and he struggled to find something to say. But luckily, words began pouring from Tom's mouth instead, like they had been waiting for years to be released.

"He was … not like the other children. Very quiet. We didn't speak much, but he was kind to me. After I left Hogwarts, I left the orphanage as well. I thought I would never see him again." He paused, sighed. "I first began leading Muggle raids with my followers a few months before the memory I just showed you. I would live in this apartment during the week for my job at Borgin and Burkes, and on the weekends I would return to the home of my filthy, dead Muggle father. We would have weekly meetings there."

"For what?" Harry blurted, unable to stop himself. Voldemort had not been active this long ago, had he? Harry had thought that it would be a great many years before the first wizarding war would officially start in this time.

Tom's eyes flashed with dark amusement. "I would demonstrate a variety of curses on a random Muggle that they would bring to me. Then they would take turns practicing as well. Lessons, you could call it."

A shiver raced down Harry's spine. It was easy to forget that the Dark Lord was a sadistic fuck when he was so damn gentle and tender with him, but these reminders would keep yanking Harry back to reality.

"But then one night they brought me Nicholas," said Tom softly, looking over Harry's shoulder and losing himself in the memory as he spoke. "I recognized him immediately, of course. He had been adopted by a Muggle pimp who often came to recruit children to work the streets. The head of the orphanage knew, of course, but what did she care, so long as the man was paying her for the adoption fee."

Anger lit briefly in Tom's eyes, before it was cooled by a soft sadness.

"I did not use him for my demonstrations that night," said Tom. His voice was quiet, pensive. "I healed him, cared for his wounds. We … spent the night together." He swallowed visibly, his eyes clouding over for a moment. "But it was a mistake," he snapped suddenly. "The bastard fled in the night, taking Slytherin's locket with him. The damn Muggle called it a trinket; he had no idea of its worth!"

"So you killed him?" Harry said, unable to stay quiet any longer. He felt very angry all of the sudden. "You obviously cared a great deal about him, Tom. I kill people that I love all the time, too!"

"Spare me your sarcasm," Tom shot back viciously, taking a step toward Harry. "I needed to get my locket back. I had plans for it that stretched far beyond a Muggle pawn shop." His eyes flashed red again, the monster within him rearing its ugly head. "He deserved better than a life as a Muggle prostitute. And I needed a murder to complete my Horcrux. He served a purpose that was far more honorable than selling himself to Muggle men."

"_Honorable?"_ Harry repeated, truly dumbfounded. He stared at the other boy in disbelief before his face settled into a disgusted scowl. "You've answered my question, at least. You really_haven't_ ever known love, if that's what you think love is."

Tom's expression changed very suddenly, morphing from vicious anger to a wicked smirk. He stepped up to Harry very quickly, and the raven-haired boy gasped when Tom's fingers-real, solid fingers-grasped Harry's shirt and pushed him against the table.

"But Harry," he breathed, "you specifically asked me if I ever _did _know love. I suppose that Nicholas was the closest that I ever came in the past, despite the lovers I have taken since then." His fingers tightened against Harry's chest, his face so close that Harry could feel the boy's breath against his mouth. It smelled of lemons, Harry thought distantly, trying hard not to be distracted by the dark curls of Tom's hair, or the almond-shaped eyes that were so very similar to and different from Voldemort's own.

"But if you were to ask me today, well, I think I might have a very different answer."

Harry's heart was racing, and he squirmed uselessly against the older boy, fear coursing through his veins. "What are you talking about?"

"I was briefly reunited with my current form last night, don't you remember?" Tom whispered, that small, secret smile still dancing across his lips. "Perhaps that question might be better posed toward him. I have a feeling that the answer has changed a bit."

Harry blinked, surprise running through him like ice, even as anticipation blossomed warm in his belly when Tom lowered his lips to hover over Harry's own. Harry wasn't sure who moved first; he only knew that, a moment later, Tom's mouth was pressed flush against his own. Tom's lips were soft and smooth, kissing him long and slow and sweet. A warm tongue slid against Harry's lower lip, and Harry opened his mouth compliantly.

The feeling of Tom's mouth was both warmly familiar and strangely new at the same time.

"_Harry!_" A girl's voice, distant, cut through the haze in Harry's mind, muffled by the feeling of the young Tom Riddle's lips against his tongue. "_Harry! Oh, god, he's in the locket!"_

Tom began to pull away, his silver eyes dark and heated. Harry felt like a mess of bones and skin underneath him, clumsy and hot and stupid and very reluctant to stop these wonderful feelings.

"_Harry!"_

"Go," said Tom softly. _I don't want to. _But Tom placed both of his palms flat on Harry's chest, his eyes suddenly heavy with sadness. "Go," he said again, and pushed firmly, gently.

As Harry once again began his descent into freefall, those beautiful eyes still hanging in his mind, he could have sworn that he'd heard two more whispered words follow him in his journey back into reality:

_Thank you_.


	18. III:6

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

A/N: Just want to thank you all once again for reading and reviewing! You guys make me so happy :) Hope you enjoy the next chapter!

* * *

><p>6.<p>

Apparently three consecutive instances of landing flat on his feet was too much to hope for. As Harry came tumbling out of the locket in a flash of white light, he found himself gracelessly sprawled across the carpet and suffocating in bushy brown hair that smelled faintly of lavender.

There was a loud squeal from underneath him, followed by a _crack _against the wall across the room.

"Sorry - oi - _sorry _-"

Harry scrambled to his knees, pushing himself up off of Hermione, who was blushing a spectacular shade of pink from where she lay on her back. Ron was gaping in shock at Harry, his eyes wide.

"Are you okay, mate?" Ron asked, his face completely drained of color. "I mean, you just," his voice fell to a soft hush, "you were inside You-Know-Who's _soul._"

_In_ _more ways than one_, Harry thought rather tiredly. He saw that Ron was shoving a shaking finger at the locket, which Hermione had just thrown across the room, as though clarification were needed.

"Er … yeah," the raven-haired boy answered at length. He got to his feet slowly, wincing. His knees ached quite a bit from their rather aggressive introduction with Voldemort's floor. "It was a bit like that time in the diary." _Except that he didn't try to kiss me last time. _"How did you know?"

Harry offered his hand to Hermione, who, still blushing, accepted his help and climbed to her feet as well. For some reason, she was refusing to meet Harry's eyes, her cheeks burning a color that was almost worthy of a Weasley. Harry furrowed his brow. What on earth was so embarrassing about him falling on top of her? He had knocked into her accidentally more than once in the past.

"We noticed that the door was unlocked," Ron said, frowning and looking warily between his two best friends. Ron apparently had noticed that something was amiss about her reaction as well, judging from the wrinkle in his forehead. Harry grimaced; he hoped dearly that Ron wouldn't start drawing illegitimate conclusions about the nature of Harry and Hermione's relationship again. "So we snuck downstairs. We figured that the door must be open for a reason, but if You-Know-Who was still keeping you occupied, we could always run back upstairs."

At these words, Hermione seemed to blush even more fiercely. Harry swallowed, a pit forming in his stomach. She couldn't possibly know, could she?

"I saw the locket on the floor," Hermione said finally, as though in answer, her gaze still fixed pointedly downward. Her words were very measured and careful, a tone that Harry recognized she took whenever she was afraid that Harry was about to begin yelling. "It was open, so I picked it up and I saw you inside of it. There's a picture in there. A … wizard picture."

Another blush flamed across her cheeks. Harry suddenly felt like his insides had been doused in ice water.

"Well of course it was a wizard picture!" Ron said, clearly confused. "Why on earth would there be a Muggle picture inside of Slytherin's locket?"

"Oh," Harry replied, a little shakily. "Right." Had she seen? Of course she had; her raging blush was enough of a testament to that. How the hell was he going to get out of _this _one?

Ron was positively scowling now, looking somewhat frantically between the both of them. "What? What am I missing? What happened?"

Hermione chanced a glance upward at Harry, her eyes confused and imploring. "He was just talking to Voldemort," she said, her voice still a little too light to be genuine. "I mean, that must have been Voldemort, right? When he was … our age, I suppose." She was still blushing, but Harry felt a massive flood of relief when he realized that she wasn't about to tell Ron what she had seen inside the locket.

Ron's scowl deepened. "Then why do you look like you just saw Dumbledore starkers or something?"

Hermione glared, her voice taking on its characteristic sharpness again, despite the blush still flaring across her cheekbones. "Oh, come off it, Ronald. I think you just wish that _you _had fallen on top of me instead."

Now it was Ron's turn to blush. His mouth dangled open for a few moments before he closed it, apparently not able to come up with a proper retort to that.

"Come on," Harry said, trying not to laugh and quite eager to change the subject. "Voldemort said we could use the kitchen."

This was clearly a conversation topic with which Ron was much more comfortable. "There's a _kitchen?_ I'm bloody _starving_, I feel like I haven't eaten anything in centuries!"

As Ron and Hermione went to exit the room, Harry's thoughts strayed quickly back to the locket, which was still laying open across the floor. It certainly wouldn't do for Voldemort to return to the cottage and find a piece of his soul thrown across the sitting room like a piece of common costume jewelery.

Harry quickly walked over to where the locket lay crumpled on the ground. Quite aware of Hermione's heavy gaze on his back, he tried to calm himself to ensure optimal control of his emotions before scooping up the necklace. To his enormous relief, however, Tom did not seem to have any intention of manipulating Harry again. Instead of flooding out of the locket, Tom remained within its metal confines.

Harry quickly snapped the locket shut, not daring to glance at the picture inside. He still felt the weight of Hermione's gaze from where she stood in the doorway, and he did not want to further arouse her suspicions. Rather reluctantly, he placed the Horcrux back in the chest, shut the lid, and hissed the command to activate the lock.

The kitchen was a quaint little room with a round wooden table in the middle. There was a refrigerator, a stove, and a sink. Everything from the garish yellow of the stove to the peeling linoleum flooring suggested that this kitchen had not been updated by neither wizard nor Muggle means in a great many years.

This did not seem to bother Ron, however, who immediately gravitated toward the pantry as though sucked by a magnetic pull. Rolling her eyes at the red-head, Hermione pulled Harry discreetly into a corner, pretending to be rifling through the dishes in a cabinet. Harry swallowed; it was obvious that this was going to be a rather uncomfortable conversation, and that was hoping for the best.

"Oh, what I would do for a peanut butter and jam sandwich," Ron was moaning as he sorted through the pantry, apparently unaware of his friends as they began speaking in quiet whispers across the room.

"Hermione, I can explain," Harry began in a half-whisper, but she cut him off with a hushing noise.

"I can't say I blame you, Harry," she whispered back to him, again refusing to meet his eye. "I mean, he _was _rather handsome in his day and age," and here color lit in her cheeks again; Harry wished mildly that the floor might open wide and swallow him right up, "but I just don't understand … why."

"Strawberry jam!" Ron cried happily from where his head was buried in the refrigerator. "Oh, _Merlin_, I haven't been this excited since the Cannons made it to the World Cup!"

"He came onto _me_, Hermione," Harry said quietly, perhaps a little too quickly, because Hermione frowned at him. Hurriedly, he added, "He said that he had been very lonely and that he was desperate for some company. I don't think he even knew who I was."

It was a little disconcerting, how easy it had become to lie to his friends. He wondered if it would ever be so easy to lie to Voldemort.

"Well, why did you even go in there in the first place?" Hermione said sharply. Harry knew that if she weren't making such an effort to be quiet she would be receding into one of her loud lectures at this point, but he supposed he should be glad that she wasn't throwing a fit about what she had seen. "That was an awful risk for you to take, Harry! Horcruxes are very Dark magic!"

There was a loud gasp from across the kitchen. Harry and Hermione both looked up in a slight panic.

"Oh, there's _peanut butter_, too, the extra chunky kind!"

Hermione let out an irritated huff at the interruption. Harry turned back to her, scowling.

"I was getting information about other Horcruxes!" he said to her angrily, still keeping his voice low. Hermione's lips twitched into a disapproving line.

"It was still very dangerous, Harry," she replied. "Be careful. If Voldemort's memory was trying to manipulate you like that, it probably won't be long before he tries to do the same thing in real life." She grimaced, looking revolted at the idea. Harry turned his gaze away quickly, trying not to flush at the suggestion. He supposed that he should be grateful she hadn't asked if Voldemort had tried anything already. Harry had a feeling that a spluttering, 'no,' would not be very convincing.

"D'ya wassum pea-buhr-'jam?"

Ron was grinning through a mouthful of sandwich from across the kitchen. Hermione rounded on him immediately, and he quickly ducked behind the table to avoid the vicious glare that Hermione swung his way.

"_Excuse _me," Hermione snapped, "but I don't speak barbarian. Perhaps if you would swallow for once before you opened your mouth, I would understand you!"

Ron, apparently remembering that Hermione did not have a wand to hex him with, peeked his red head up from behind the counter. He swallowed the rather large portion of sandwich in his mouth and scowled. "I was only trying to be nice!" he said, sounding rather wounded.

"I would love a sandwich," said Harry, grinning, glad to take advantage of the interruption in their conversation. Besides, now that the stressful events of the morning were behind him, he realized that he really was rather hungry.

A few minutes later, the trio sat around the table, finishing an early lunch together. Ron had gone through four peanut butter and jam sandwiches, while Harry and Hermione had found some ham and cheese instead.

Harry had been very quiet since his conversation with Hermione. This, of course, was in part because he _was _very hungry, and growing up with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had quickly taught him as a child not to speak with food in his mouth - or to speak very much during meals at all, for that matter. Somehow, Harry didn't think that growing up with Fred and George for role models had done very much good for Ron's table manners.

But there was more to Harry's silence than his preoccupation with his ham sandwich. Even as Hermione and Ron easily fell into their typical, good-natured bickering, Harry couldn't find the heart to pick a side and play along. So many things had changed in the past twenty-four hours that Harry couldn't even remember how to pretend that everything was the same as it had been yesterday morning. He found himself at a loss for how to tease his friends, or make a stab at Voldemort's snake-face, or roll his eyes with Ron as Hermione suggested yet another book that would further their knowledge in the current topic of conversation.

Everything they spoke about seemed to remind him of the events of the past day - Voldemort touching him with tenderness and care, the light leaving Mundungus' eyes, Bellatrix screaming and pleading for mercy, and, perhaps most of all, Tom Riddle smiling and brushing his face with warm, solid fingertips.

_We are one and the same, Harry Potter._

Secrets stretched between Harry and his friends like a vast chasm, and Harry had no idea how to reach across and find the familiar comfort that Ron and Hermione had always been able to provide him.

Harry swallowed down his last bite of ham sandwich and realized that it was suddenly very quiet in the kitchen. He looked up from his plate to find both Ron and Hermione staring at him strangely.

"What's the matter?" Harry said, his temper flaring a little. After all that had happened, they still felt the need to stare at him like he was some sort of exhibit at the zoo.

"Er … Harry," Ron squeaked, his voice unnaturally high. "There's … a ... b-behind …"

Harry felt it, then, a looming presence of something _else_directly behind him, just as he realized that Ron and Hermione hadn't been looking quite directly at him, but just over his shoulder. He had been so caught up in brooding about his recent disconnection with Ron and Hermione that he hadn't noticed the magical energy thrumming just behind his chair. He cursed himself for his lack of concentration - this had been exactly what Voldemort was trying to train him to do.

Harry turned around, expecting Voldemort to be standing there, ready to chastise him for his inability to clear his mind and pay attention - and came face-to-face with the giant, rearing head of a serpent.

"_You are not my master_," Nagini hissed curiously in Parseltongue, her flicking tongue mere inches from Harry's face. Harry resisted the urge to recoil. Despite the panic that was rising in his chest, he knew that he needed to stay calm if he were to have the upper hand in this encounter.

"_Of course I'm not_," Harry hissed back, as though he argued every day with snakes that had bodies thick as his thighs. He scooted his chair to the side so that he could face her better and glared, trying to assert his authority. He was painfully aware that he did not have his wand, and he knew that this could turn bad if Nagini decided they were vulnerable enough to attack.

"_Then why do you smell of his skin?_" she hissed suspiciously, her tongue flicking out again to taste the air around Harry's face. Harry couldn't help the color that rose in his cheeks at this, and he felt a surge of gratefulness that Ron and Hermione could not understand Parseltongue.

"Harry," Ron said from behind him, his voice still very high-pitched, "is it speaking? In Parseltongue? What is it … what is it saying?"

"She says that she smelled my," Harry began without thinking, catching himself just in time, "my … my lunch."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ron huddle a little more protectively over his peanut butter sandwich. Harry was a rather amused by this, but Nagini only hissed indignantly, sliding up to sway a little higher to get a better look at Harry's friends.

"_Silly human,_" Nagini hissed in Parseltongue. "_I am not interested in human food. On the other hand_," her tongue flickered out again as she leaned a little further to fix her yellow gaze on Ron and Hermione, "_your human friends smell rather tasty_."

Harry was on his feet in about two seconds, placing himself directly between the serpent and the table. Ron yelped at the sudden movement, but Harry did not turn around, instead narrowing his eyes at the snake, his hands balled into fists.

"_You won't touch them,_" Harry hissed, trying very hard to look menacing despite his very empty wand hand. His mind was racing desperately as he tried to think of what he would do if the serpent decided to strike. Would it be wise to reach out over his connection with Voldemort and call for help?

Nagini hissed, rearing back a little. "_I do not take orders from anyone but my master._"

Harry took a step forward, his heart hammering in his chest. "_Your master is protecting them!_"

"_You are not my master! You know nothing of his wishes!_" The snake reared a little higher, opening its mouth threateningly and baring two very large fangs.

"H-Harry," Ron whimpered from behind him.

_"Your master confides in me,_" Harry responded in spitting Parseltongue, refusing to stand down and struggling not to appear intimidated. On an impulse, he decided to add, "_In fact, he says that I am his equal_."

This had apparently been the wrong thing to say. Nagini began spitting louder than ever, swaying angrily.

"_Master is _mine_, man child_," the snake hissed in the vicious sibilants of Parseltongue. "_You will not take him from me. He is mine!_"

Far from intimidated, Harry had to strongly resist the urge to roll his eyes at this statement. He wondered briefly if all snakes were this possessive, and had half a mind to ask Voldemort about it later - if he wasn't about to be poisoned by sharp snake fangs, that is.

Harry had quite a few things he could say to this statement - starting with the fact that he was _not _a child, and that he certainly had no intentions of taking Voldemort anywhere with him but into the grave, thank you very much - but when he opened his mouth, several things happened at once, none of which unfortunately involved any clever retorts.

The most prominent thing was the pain. It emanated directly from his scar, which felt rather like it was trying to rip itself off of his forehead, and spilled into his vision, grinding against every nerve ending in his body. Harry felt his fingers clawing uselessly at his face, at his forehead, nails digging into the skin and adding to the fire in his skull, but it didn't matter - he_needed _to get it off, to cradle his poor, pounding head, to writhe and scream and cry. He realized that he had fallen to the linoleum floor, and he only noticed this because there was more pain, throbbing hot where he had landed on his knees.

The second thing was the vague realization that something very similar seemed to be happening to Nagini. The snake was violently twisting about beside him on the floor, hissing and spitting, as though in the throes of a seizure. Harry felt a sick sense of relief at this, cutting through the haze of splitting agony behind his eyeballs: as long as Nagini was incapacitated as well, Harry needn't worry about standing between the bloodthirsty snake and his best friends.

Distantly, he could hear Ron and Hermione crying out to him, repeating his name and touching his feverish skin. Harry did not respond; he had a much more important mission now.

Harry pressed his fingers hard into his temples. He struggled to ground himself, to see beyond the horrible pain in his torturous, traitorous scar.

It did not take him long to find what he was looking for.

Voldemort's wrath was like a wildfire that had, up until this moment, been hidden behind the smog of the pain in his forehead. As soon as Harry could clear the smoke, however, he could not concentrate on anything but the rage burning hot inside of him. Harry wracked his mind for the last time he could remember Voldemort this angry, but he failed to turn up with much, aside from the few recent instances that Harry had managed to escape Voldemort's grasp.

When Harry opened his eyes again, he was standing on the front lawn of Malfoy Manor, his wand fixed on a shuddering figure on the ground. There was a thick fog floating over the grass, but Harry could still see the remnants of a recent magical brawl littering the lawn. Harry knew that this was part, but not all, of the reason he was so enraged.

"_Crucio_."

The figure on the ground began screaming in agony, writhing on the grass and pleading in broken sobs. Sick satisfaction prickled in Harry's scar, but he was still so _angry_. He knew that torture alone would not relieve the raging desire for revenge coursing through his blood.

"Stupid boy," Harry hissed, lifting the curse. The body was trembling with relief, but Harry glided over to give him a swift, hard kick in the ribs. The child yelped; Harry felt a little more satisfied. "You are just as slippery as your worthless father. I am the most powerful wizard in the world, child; did you really think it wise to betray me?"

The body on the ground continued to tremble violently on the ground, whimpering. The boy raised his head a little, but his hair was so matted with blood and dirt that it was nearly impossible to tell what color it was. The next word that fell from the person's lips, however, brought with it a jolt of horrible recognition. Seven years of hearing that same voice spitting that same word with contempt in the hallways, in his classrooms, on the Quidditch field, left Harry with no doubt as to who was lying beaten and bloodied in the grass.

It was strange how one word, so familiar, could be so unexpected and shocking at the same time.

"Potter."

Harry narrowed his eyes, the wildfire of his wrath flaring up within him. He kicked the child again, harder, and was again briefly satisfied by the yelp torn from his lips.

"What did you say?" Harry hissed, his fingers twitching against his wand. How he longed to inflict more pain on this boy - he had come so close to ruining everything!

But first, he must explore this rather interesting development.

"P-Potter," the child said again, before he dissolved into a fit of coughing, doubling up on the ground. Harry snarled, bending over and seizing the boy's robes. Harry yanked him to his feet effortlessly, holding him in the air by the front of his clothing.

The unmistakable face of Draco Malfoy stared back at him, a mix of terror, shame, and defiance fighting for control of his pointed, aristocratic features.

"What do you have to say about Potter?" Harry said quietly, threateningly.

"Potter is more … p-powerful than you think," Draco stammered, his voice hoarse and shaking. "I hate him, but not nearly as much as I h-hate _you_ for … for everything that you've done to my family." Draco looked positively terrified by the words that were coming out of his mouth, but he seemed powerless to stop talking now that he had begun. The boy took a deep shuddering breath, casting his eyes downward. "You're going to k-kill me now … but it doesn't matter. Potter is going to kill _you_. You just wait."

A low, silky chuckle passed through Harry's lips. Draco's eyes widened marginally in terror, flicking quickly up to his face and then back down again; this was clearly not the reaction he had been expecting.

"You are a fool, Draco," Harry murmured softly. "The passion of fools - it will ruin you all. You have cast your lot with the losing side, Draco, and now you must pay."

Harry dropped the Malfoy boy unceremoniously to the ground. To his credit, the blond child did not make a sound as he thudded onto the grass, his head lowered to stare at the dirt._Where you belong, with the rest of your traitorous family_, Harry thought angrily, and raised his wand.

"M-my lord?"

The stammer came from behind him, from an onlooker who had just exited the manor. Harry whipped around and trained his wand on the fool who dared to interrupt him. He _loathed _to be interrupted.

"What is it?" Harry hissed. The Death Eater cowered at the anger in his voice; he was a new recruit, clearly.

"M-Madame Lestrange sent me," the young man stuttered out, and then fell silent again, looking absolutely petrified.

"Spit it out, boy!" Harry snapped, fighting the urge to kill the fool where he stood. But he would not indulge in such impulses; his next killing curse had a very specific target, and it was not this simpering idiot standing by the manor.

"It's the prisoner." The Death Eater was choosing his words carefully, trying not to anger Harry. Did he not realize that his mere hesitance was even more infuriating? "He is … still resisting."

"Kill him," Harry spat dismissively.

"And … what of the Malfoy boy?" the young man stammered, his gaze flickering briefly to the trembling body behind Harry. Harry narrowed his eyes; this newcomer certainly had some gall. The Death Eater's eyes widened in comprehension a second later when he realized his presumption and began stuttering afresh. "I mean - well - Madame Lestrange, she wanted to know, for me to - to ask -"

Bellatrix. Of course. "I am attending to the matter now." Harry's tone left no room for further questions. "Now leave me."

The young man did not need to be told twice. He nodded vigorously before fleeing back inside the mansion.

Harry turned around. He was mildly surprised to see that Draco was now looking up at him with the icy blue eyes of his mother, his terrified gaze unwavering. Harry smirked. Draco's defiance did not anger Harry; in fact, he decided he'd rather like to watch the life leave the child's face.

Another surge of pain in his forehead, and Harry was suddenly kneeling once more on linoleum tiles, panting hard and drenched in a cold sweat. The agony in his scar had faded to a dull, steady throb, but Harry was no longer concentrating on that.

What had just happened? Malfoy … Voldemort had been torturing Malfoy. Malfoy had ruined something important, and now Harry - _Voldemort _- was going to kill him. Had already killed him, if all of that had been happening in real time. There was no way that Voldemort would have allowed him to survive any longer than he already had.

A warm hand tentatively smoothed back his bangs, bringing him sharply back to reality. Harry blinked, forced himself to look up. Hermione was kneeling beside him, Ron next to her. From the expressions on their faces, it was apparent that they would never get used to these episodes of his, either.

"Something's happened," Hermione said quietly. It wasn't a question; it was a fact.

"He's angry," Ron added for good measure, and Harry was pleased to see that his voice was no longer high-pitched, although it had not lost its tremor.

"_He is angry indeed_," a hiss came from his left. Harry jumped; he had nearly forgotten that Nagini was still there. "_If you really do care for these humans, you might want to hide them … master will not deny his Nagini dinner when he is so displeased_…"

Ron was fixing a very uncomfortable expression on the snake. Harry knew that the red-head disliked the sound of Parseltongue almost as much as he despised the use of Voldemort's name.

"You'd better go," Harry said suddenly, and was surprised to hear that his voice was very hoarse. The last thing that he needed was for Voldemort to feed his friends to a giant snake. "He was really angry … I know that he won't hurt me-"

(_are you so sure about that?_)

"-but I don't know if the same can be said for you." Harry swallowed, and he hated the fear in their eyes as they stared at him. It was hard, sometimes, to tell if it was Voldemort that they were scared of - or if it was Harry himself.

_And is there even really a difference anymore?_

"But Harry," Hermione said, fear coloring her voice, "what happened?"

"_My master's plans are no business of yours_," Nagini hissed angrily from the other side of the room. Harry pointedly ignored the snake's comment and pushed himself to his feet, still shaking.

"There was an attack of some sort. On Malfoy Manor." He helped Hermione to her feet as well. "It was over, from what I could tell. They had a prisoner." _Kill him. _Harry closed his eyes, wincing. "And Malfoy. Malfoy had something to do with it. Voldemort was … very unhappy with him."

Nagini hissed pleasantly. "_Perhaps my master will bring him back for supper."_

Harry tried not to shudder at this thought. "You really need to go back upstairs. I don't want you to get in his way when he gets back."

Ron was very pale as they walked out of the kitchen. He eyed the front door nervously. "But - Harry," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "can't we just … leave? There's the door. We could make a run for -"

"No," Harry interrupted tiredly. "We can't. The whole place is warded and locked down. None of us even have our wands." They had arrived at the stairs. "We're stuck here, for now."

A few minutes later, Harry was sitting stiffly in the sitting room, trying to ignore the giant serpent slithering around the room, complaining occasionally of her hunger in spitting hisses.

Harry's head was spinning with confusion. He was trying desperately to fit together the shattered fragments of his life, but it was like trying to do a puzzle with all the wrong pieces; no matter how hard he tried to force them together, they simply wouldn't fit.

Just a few hours ago, he had stood in the room with Voldemort and watched as the man kissed him and smoothed away the tension in his muscles and taught him to relax for the first time in his life. Voldemort had touched him gently, had spoken to him kindly, had coaxed him to mind-blowing climaxes, one right after the other; Voldemort had acted as though he were capable of caring.

But how could such a monster be capable of caring? Harry couldn't shake how easily the command to take another's life had fallen from Voldemort's lips, or how much Voldemort had thirsted for Draco's pain and suffering. And then there was the matter of Harry's parents, and his godfather, and all of the other people that had lost their lives because of Voldemort's destructive, monstrous goals.

How could Harry have so easily allowed their deaths to fall to his peripheral? How could he have allowed himself to actually _enjoy _anything to do with this person at all?

And where on earth did Tom Riddle fit into all of this? Unmistakably human, Tom was the ghost of Voldemort's past that still seemed to haunt Voldemort's eyes and thoughts and actions. Could Harry simply deny Tom's presence within Voldemort's soul? Tom, with his soft eyes and sly smile and warm, gentle fingers, not yet marred by unspeakable acts of violence and death. Did he exist only within a piece of jewelry, or could Harry find him somewhere today, lost within the soul that resided in Voldemort's current body?

Nagini slithered across Harry's feet, sliding up his legs before coming to rest directly in front of his face. Harry's scar prickled a little, but he knew that it had nothing to do with the Horcrux before him.

"_He is angry indeed,_" Nagini hissed again. She seemed almost amused. "_I have only seen him so enraged once before."_

She paused, clearly waiting for Harry to ask her to elaborate. Harry decided on a whim to indulge her, taking the bait easily. "_And why was that?_"

Nagini hissed softly, her tongue flicking out again and brushing for a moment against his cheek. Her next word was drawn out on one long, sibilant whisper. _"You_."

Harry shuddered. When it became clear that he was not going to ask her to continue, she slid off of his lap, curling into herself on the rug.

"_Be careful, human_," she added at length, just before Harry got lost in his thoughts again. "_My master has thought of nothing but you since he has found a body again. You make him feel things that no other human can._" She met his gaze with yellow eyes, but she did not go on, and Harry did not wish to press her.

He was left with nothing else to do but sit and wait.


	19. III:7

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort  
>Rating: M<br>A/N: Thank you sooo much, as always, to all of my readers and reviewers :3 Sorry that I haven't been updating every day like I used to, like some of you have mentioned; it seems like my life has been one crappy thing after another lately, and I've been incredibly busy. I'm really doing my best to get chapters up as quickly as possible, though, I promise! :) Hope you all like this next chapter!

* * *

><p>7.<p>

Harry had gone over and over in his head what he was going to say when Voldemort returned. He had prepared the lines, the pauses, the intonation of his words; he knew exactly how he was going to confront the man.

He just hoped that he could find the courage to do it.

A surge of magical energy suddenly swept through Harry's body, the hair on the back of his neck standing up in tingling anticipation. There was the sound of the oak front door, creaking open and then closing with a gentle _click_.

Harry's breath caught in his throat. Voldemort had arrived.

Nagini gave a long, happy hiss from the carpet. She unraveled slowly, stretching out to her full length. Shooting one last disdainful glance in Harry's direction, she slithered out of the room into the hallway, leaving Harry alone.

The boy shifted in his seat, wishing not for the first time that he still had his wand. His fingers grasped absentmindedly at his pocket as he strained his ear to listen for the soft hissing of Parseltongue.

Nothing. There was only silence.

Harry tried desperately to remember what is what he had planned to say. Something about anger, and killing, and how Harry wasn't going to allow the Dark Lord to simply have his way with him anymore. But his carefully constructed statements had slipped away with the sound of the closing door and Voldemort's magical presence pressing on him like a tangible weight.

All he was left with were his feelings; and, as Voldemort had so often reminded him, feelings were quite inadequate in the face of logic and cold scrutiny.

There was a soft hissing sound coming from the hall now, but it was too hushed for Harry to make out what was being said, or who was even saying it. His scar stung suddenly, and Harry dug his teeth into his bottom lip to combat the prickling pain.

His scar. The brief flash of pain reminded Harry of how furious Voldemort had been just a few minutes ago, and fear, familiar and cold, began to sweep over him. This was a vengeful, powerful murderer that Harry was dealing with, one that had wanted him dead for his entire life - and Harry was simply going to stand up and let loose on the Dark Lord about what Voldemort could and could not do to him? About what Voldemort could do to other _people_?

_I don't have a choice_, Harry thought bitterly. _What am I supposed to do?_

The hissing stopped, and the room flooded with silence once more. Harry could not take his eyes away from the empty doorway.

It occurred to him that Voldemort was probably livid at him as well. The Order had tried to rescue him, Harry was sure of it - it was the only thing that made sense, especially after Ron and Hermione had shown up at Malfoy Manor yesterday. And it was therefore his fault that Voldemort was so angry, at least indirectly. Would Voldemort take out his fury on him as well? Or - worse - would he head straight upstairs and deal with Ron and Hermione instead?

The slithering sound of a snake, sliding across the wooden floor in the hallway, and then more silence.

Harry's heart seemed torn between speeding up tenfold and stopping altogether. He had not been this afraid since Voldemort had caught him at the Ministry, when Harry had been so sure that the Dark Lord was going to kill him right then and there.

Soft footsteps against the floor; and then the looming figure of the Dark Lord filled the doorway, magnificent in his sweeping black cloak. His eyes were bleeding crimson, locking with Harry's own and dissolving any remaining thoughts that Harry had gathered weakly in his mind as a last defense.

"You are positively frothing at the brim with emotion, Harry," Voldemort said, his voice low but carrying across the room all the same, as though the man were speaking directly beside him. "I thought that we addressed this matter earlier today." Harry couldn't remove his eyes from the Dark Lord, tall and powerful and deadly in the doorway, and he shuddered despite himself.

He couldn't remember what he was going to say, and even if he could, his mouth was so dry that he didn't know how well he would be able to communicate at the moment. He was suddenly very aware of the raw fear rolling off of his body in waves. He wondered briefly if Voldemort was like a canine, able to smell fear in the air around him.

Voldemort's eyes flashed with something like amusement. "_I don't need to smell to know your thoughts, Harry_," Voldemort's voice whispered into his mind, surprising Harry enough so that he didn't jump up off the sofa and back away when Voldemort glided suddenly across the room. A moment later, the Dark Lord was standing right in front of him.

"_You wear them right on your forehead._"

A long, spindly finger reached out and brushed gently against Harry's scar. The boy very nearly shivered before he abruptly recoiled from the touch, as though it had burned him.

Scarlet eyes narrowed dangerously, and Harry's heart skipped another beat.

_I'm not writhing on the floor in pain yet, _Harry thought to himself. _I suppose that's encouraging_.

"You killed Malfoy." Harry was happy to hear that his voice sounded relatively flat, void of the emotion for which he knew Voldemort would chastise him.

Voldemort stared back at him, his pale, flawless face unreadable. There was something menacing lurking beneath that impenetrable gaze.

(_blue eyes, embracing death; Draco spitting defiantly in the Dark Lord's face, defending his worst enemy to the most dangerous wizard in the world, enduring torture and showing uncharacteristic bravery for the first time in his life, just in time for it to be snatched away from him_)

And Voldemort still stared, uncaring, detached.

"I don't see why that is any of your concern."

Anger surged bitterly at the back of Harry's throat. "Sort of like my parents, yeah? You killed them as well." Harry steeled his gaze, unflinching and cold. "Minor detail, I suppose."

Voldemort's face was still frustratingly unreadable, and Harry was suddenly overcome with hatred for this person, hatred for his cruel, cryptic words and his ridiculous control over his emotions. He suddenly _needed _to make him react; it was as though he had no greater desire in the world to cause Voldemort to shout and scream and feel all of the pain that he had put Harry through.

If Voldemort could see this, however, he did not make it apparent. Instead, his fingers brushed lightly over Harry's scar again. "You're letting your emotions get away with you, Harry," the man murmured. "You must remember to relax if you are to be rational."

Harry breathed in sharply, scowling. "Funny, isn't it, how the man who's made my life a living hell is going to condemn me now for not being able to _relax_."

Voldemort stiffened ever so slightly above him, and Harry clung to the slight shift in the man's posture, thrilling in it.

"Do you truly think I'll ever be able to _relax _around you?" Harry went on, his voice rising as he stood up, trying hard to look threatening despite the fact that his slighter stature only came up to the other man's shoulders. "I've only spent my entire life waiting for the day that you'd show up and blast my brains out, but I reckon I'm supposed to just forget about all that now, right?"

"Harry," Voldemort began, and if Harry hadn't been working himself into a rage he would have recognized the threat there, hot bubbling steel beneath silk - but he couldn't stop himself: the words were pouring out of his mouth like water bursting through a dam.

"You think that you can just kill off my family and friends, and sit in my head for months keeping me awake every night and telling me about how bloody glad you'll be when you get your hands on me, too—you think you can just do all that, and then some brilliant sex and some new robes will make it all okay?"

"Harry, I'm trying to be -"

"Oh, and let's not forget the bloody _tea_, that was rich," Harry spat, his fingernails digging into his palms. A part of him realized what a fine line he was walking - he could ruin everything with these few moments, with these stupid words - but it was out of his control, just as far gone from his grasp as everything about the entire situation was. "What's next, a pet? Perhaps you'll bake me some biscuits, or some cupcakes with the Dark Mark in chocolate icing. 'Oh, I killed your parents and sent you to live with horrible Muggles and ruined your life? Have some tea and a cupcake, Harry dear, and then come up to my bed so that I can kiss away all your tears and then bugger the _shit_ out of—'"

"_Potter!_" Voldemort hissed, his eyes flaring with vicious anger. Harry's words caught in his throat as momentary satisfaction swept over him - at last, a _reaction _- but his satisfaction was quickly replaced with terror when Voldemort shoved him hard onto the sofa, gripping his arms with tight, strong fingers. There was something wild and raw in the Dark Lord's eyes, something positively human in his anger, and Harry couldn't decide if he was happy that he had been able to provoke the other man at will or if he was terrified.

"I -" Harry began, his voice trembling, but then a hot, angry mouth was covering his own, stoppering both the rush of his words and his anger like a cork in a bottle. Harry struggled uselessly beneath Voldemort for a moment, but then the man tangled his hands in Harry's hair, pulling his head back and holding him still, and Harry could do nothing but sit and feel and try to grasp at his fury like holding water in his hands.

"Is this truly the only way to silence you?" Voldemort murmured against his lips after a long moment in which Harry found himself breathing hard through a swollen mouth.

Harry blinked up at the Dark Lord defiantly. _Probably_, he thought, but that did not seem very threatening, so he remained quiet.

"Charming," Voldemort said dryly. His fingers tightened suddenly in Harry's hair, just enough to send a shock of pain through the boy's skull, and Harry inhaled a sharply through his nose. "You will never interrupt me again, you insolent brat. I have many less pleasant alternatives at my disposal to silence you in the future, and I do not wish to ever resort to any of them. Do I make myself clear?"

Harry snarled very slightly in response to this, but he did not argue. Although he did not want to admit that Voldemort snogging the fight out of him was certainly a pleasant prospect, he also did not want the other man's wand turned on him any time in the near future.

A few moments of tense silence passed before Voldemort finally spoke again.

"I am not capable of remorse, Harry." The Dark Lord's fingers loosened a little in Harry's hair. "If the notion that I will apologize has wormed its way into your foolish head, allow me to disillusion you."

"And you simply expect me to live with that?" Harry said angrily. "Bound to you for my whole life, even though you've killed my parents? Even though you've almost killed _me_? The only reason I'm even alive right now is because I'm your bloody Horcrux."

Harry expected the other man to react poorly to this, but to his surprise, Voldemort only sighed heavily. He was still standing above Harry, one hand leaning on the back of the sofa above Harry's head, the other carding gently through the boy's hair, but his eyes were on fire, studying Harry's face as Tom Riddle might a rare and interesting book.

"There is something … different about you, Harry." Voldemort touched his forehead again gently. "I cannot quite put my finger on it. We are so alike, and yet we are so very different." His eyes burned brighter, as though hoping they could find the answer written on Harry's face. "It seems as though the longer that I have spent mulling about your mind, the less I have wanted to kill you."

Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry again. What was that supposed to mean?

"That day after I caught you in the Ministry," Voldemort continued, "I was furious with myself for not killing you right then and there. You have eluded my capture so many times, and yet, there I had you, right beneath my fingers."

Those same fingers strayed behind Harry's ear again, tenderly tracing the artery in his throat.

"It was then that I realized, Harry," Voldemort murmured, his voice very low. "Even if I had not discovered this connection between us, I don't know that I would have been able to kill you."

Harry's heart had lodged its way up into his throat. This was wrong, this was against everything that he knew and believed about this man. It was utterly impossible.

So Harry seized the only thing that made sense to him right now: his anger.

"It didn't stop you from killing Malfoy," Harry said, his voice hoarse and shaking. He was a little surprised to feel grief, heavy and cold, blossoming in his chest, for the boy that he had once counted as his enemy. "You killed him for defending me."

Voldemort scowled, eyes narrowing. "I killed him because he betrayed me," the Dark Lord spat. "He opened the gates of Malfoy Manor to those that would take you away from me."

"Because they all think that you've got me locked up somewhere torturing me with Dark magic!" Harry responded, trying to keep the anger from seeping into his voice and failing. "What do you expect them to do, sit around and wait for the _Prophet_ to announce that you've buggered me to death?"

"I expect my followers to obey my orders," Voldemort hissed, his fingers clenching against Harry's head. "There are no exceptions to this expectation, _especially _for those I have graced with my mark on their forearms."

There was a moment where Harry was almost afraid that Voldemort was going to strike him. He looked so livid, and Harry was very aware that, should the other man decide to act out against him, there was nothing that Harry could do about it without his wand.

But then Voldemort released Harry suddenly, straightening his posture so that he was standing at full height again. The cold, impenetrable mask of Lord Voldemort had descended over his features once more. The Dark Lord looked away, brushing himself off, and when he spoke, his voice was icy and detached. "How I deal with my followers is no business of yours."

This response was even more infuriating than anything else that had happened today. Snarling, Harry leaped up from the couch and shoved Voldemort bodily across the living room. Shock registered briefly in Voldemort's eyes before the man was stumbling backward, knocking into the coffee table with the backs of his legs.

"You've made it my business!" Harry shouted, anger thrumming in every nerve in his body. "You made it my business when you killed my parents, when you put your bloody soul inside of me! This is my _life_ - you are my life - it is all my business!"

Voldemort had recovered from his brief loss of balance and was now standing stiffly in front of Harry, his arms folded loosely across his chest. Other than a slight narrowing of the eyes, however, it did not seem as though Voldemort had been at all affected by Harry's words.

"I warn you, Harry, my tolerance is waning," Voldemort said, his voice soft and calm. "I did not bring you here so that I could babysit your tantrums."

Fury seemed to cloud his vision. Harry had to swallow a bubble of hysterical laughter at the entire situation. "Oh, that's right, I forgot. I'm supposed to just take all of this lying down." He bit his lip, remembering one of the main points of his long-forgotten speech, and added on a whim, "Well, you'd better get used to it. I'm not lying down for you anymore."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow, amusement plain on his face. "Is that so?"

Harry's face twisted in anger. Could this man ever act in the way that Harry predicted him to? "I'm not," he repeated angrily. "You can't make me."

Something shifted in Voldemort's face, and fear began to introduce itself back into the storm of emotions churning in Harry's stomach. "On the contrary," the Dark Lord said softly, "I believe I can make you do anything that I want you to."

Harry wasn't sure if he should be terrified or relieved that Voldemort was still standing unmoving, regarding Harry with a cool, calm expression. A part of Harry knew that he should stop speaking, _now_, that he should walk away from this conversation and not take the bait. Of course, Harry's mouth never seemed willing to listen to his brain.

"No," Harry repeated. "You can't make me do anything that I don't want to."

Voldemort smirked. "And therein lies my secret, Harry," he replied, and then, before Harry could even blink an eye, two firm hands were gripping his wrists and Voldemort was swooping down on him and there was a mouth and tongue and teeth ravaging his lips.

For a moment, Harry simply stood there, head spinning as he tried to adjust to the lust mixing with the anger and fear and grief coiled in his stomach, before he realized what was happening. _No. _Snarling against Voldemort's mouth, Harry threw his body against him _hard_. He felt the other man's surprise prickling in his forehead, and then they were both sent tumbling to the floor.

Harry had somehow ended up on top of Voldemort in the scuffle, and he quickly wrapped his fingers around the man's wrists, pinning him with all of his strength to the carpet. His knees were pressed against either side of the Dark Lord's thighs; he was nearly straddling the man on the floor. Voldemort, for his part, only lay there, a mixture of shock and something else battling for control of his face.

Fear rippled down Harry's spine, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He knew very well that Voldemort would be able to throw Harry off of him in a split second if he wanted to, but Harry wanted to thrill in this sense of power that he had over the Dark Lord, however brief his moment of triumph may be.

"I hate you," Harry said viciously, desperate to break through the man's calm exterior. "How could you think I would ever do anything but hate you?"

"Hatred is a very strong emotion, Harry," Voldemort responded cooly. "I believe that you are capable of a variety of strong emotions."

Harry tightened his grip on Voldemort's arms, nails biting into the skin. Voldemort didn't even so much as flinch.

"I think you hate me, too," Harry said defiantly, leaning down so that his face was hoovering just a few inches over Voldemort's. There was something absolutely terrifying about this; it was like playing with wildfire, dangerous and addicting and thrilling. But Harry couldn't stop.

Voldemort's lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he did not move to push Harry off of him. "I do not indulge in strong emotions, Harry."

Seizing his courage, Harry leaned even close to Voldemort and leered. "I disagree."

Voldemort's upper lip curled back in a snarl. "My emotions are entirely under my control," he said, his voice growing fimer. "Now remove yourself from my person."

"I don't believe you," Harry shot back, ignoring Voldemort's last statement. He kept his fingers tight around the Dark Lord's arms, preparing himself for the moment that his enemy lost his patience and swept Harry off of him. "I think that you're just afraid."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "Afraid of what, pray tell?"

"Afraid of me," Harry replied cheekily. "Afraid that if you were to give me the upper hand, you would lose control of your emotions. And then you'd have to admit that they're there at all."

The Dark Lord's eyes flashed. "I do not fear anything, least of all you."

Harry was so close to the man's face that he could hardly see anything except for the endless, beautiful pools of crimson. "Prove it."

Voldemort lay absolutely still, his face unreadable, his body unmoving aside from the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. Harry wasn't sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, this had turned into a battle between them, a battle of wills and words and power. And he was absolutely terrified. Harry wasn't foolish enough to think that he could overcome Voldemort without his wand - or even _with _his wand, for that matter - but he did know that he would not walk away from this before his enemy did. Their conversation had escalated into a battle dance, and Harry would not be the one to back down.

At great length, Voldemort finally spoke, his voice quiet and bitter. "I have nothing to prove to you."

Harry glared. "You're just afraid."

Power, strong and angry, suddenly surged through the place where Harry's fingertips met the his enemy's skin. Harry winced, preparing to be thrown back, but nothing happened. There was only a minuscule shift in Voldemort's darkening eyes. "I am not a foolish Gryffindor, Harry. You cannot goad me into engaging in this childish contest with you."

"I'm simply stating the truth," Harry said. "You're afraid of me."

Voldemort snarled, and there was that surge of power again, more intense than before. Harry did not wince this time. "I am not afraid."

Harry dug his nails into Voldemort's wrists once more. "Then prove it."

Voldemort's eyes flashed red. "How would you have me prove this to you, you foolish boy?"

Harry bit his lip. He had not thought that far.

"One night," Harry said after a few moments of thinking, suddenly overcome with determination. "You give me control over you for one night. You'll do whatever I tell you to. We won't leave the house," he added quickly when Voldemort opened his mouth to interject, and then paused, his eyes probing searchingly in Voldemort's own. "Just give me one night."

There were a few long moments of silence, and for a second, Harry was briefly afraid that Voldemort was not going to agree, that he was going to push him off and walk away and any progress that they had made would be lost.

"Tell me, Harry," Voldemort said at long last, his voice hardly above a whisper, "what do you wish to accomplish by all of this?"

Harry thought of a teenage boy with dark hair and silver eyes and lips like soft chocolate, a boy who had once cried and felt and smiled and perhaps even loved.

_Are you still there, Tom?_

"I need to know something," he said finally. "Just for one night."

Voldemort's eyes flashed. "And what is my incentive to help you with this?"

Harry swallowed and lowered his eyes. He needed this; he needed to know. "I'll … I'll do whatever you want me to."

Satisfaction crept into Voldemort's face, cold and calculating. "Then you'll join me," the man said, something wild flickering through his eyes despite the cool expression dominating the rest of his face, and Harry shivered.

"Then if I'm right," Harry added quickly, "if I find what I'm looking for … then you'll promise not to kill anyone else who tries to protect me."

He knew that he was pushing it now - as Voldemort had repeated many times today, it was not Harry's concern what the Dark Lord did with his followers, or with anyone else, for that matter - but to his surprise, Voldemort's lips thinned into a solemn line and he nodded.

"Very well," the Dark Lord said. Energy pulsed through Harry's fingers where they were still curled around his enemy's arms, and the boy did not attempt to resist as he was pushed to his feet. Voldemort followed, rising to stand as gracefully as a king. "You have tonight."

Harry could only stand and stare, blinking. He had not really expected the man to agree to either of his terms, and yet, here he was, acting as though he relinquished his command to teenage boys every other evening.

Voldemort stared coolly back at him, his expression unmoved and cruel. How would he ever find Tom Riddle in this angry, terrible person? Doubt welled briefly in Harry's stomach, but he pushed it away hurriedly. This would be the only true opportunity he would get to do this, and he would not spoil it with uncertainty.

"You are a fool, Harry Potter," Voldemort said quietly, his voice like soft silk over Harry's skin. "An over-sentimental, impressionable fool. You will lose to me."

And then Voldemort turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving Harry standing alone with only his panic and his fear as companions.

The boy took a deep, shuddering breath. Why was he even bothering with this? What on earth did he possibly have to gain in proving something to Voldemort, or to himself, or to anyone else for that matter?

There was a slithering from out in the hallway, and then the large, yellow eyes of a snake were peering back at him from the doorway.

"_Stupid man-child," _Nagini hissed, and her laughter came in short, breathy hisses. "_My master is not afraid of anything. You make him very angry. I still don't understand why he hasn't let me eat you yet."_

Harry scowled, fists clenching sporadically. "Shut up," he mumbled bitterly, and, ignoring the hissing spurts of her snake-laughter, he collapsed onto the couch, exhausted.

He had a lot of thinking to do. If there was anything certain about this situation, it was that Tom Riddle would not be seduced without a proper plan.


	20. IV:1

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort, sexual content

Rating: M

A/N: AGH! I'm so sorry for the wait for this chapter. It's got a lot of important plot points, and it's much longer than most of the others - over twenty pages on my word processor, yikes - and I didn't want to half-ass any of it. Even so, I'm really not entirely happy with it, but I don't want to make you guys wait any longer. It posed a lot of challenges for me, though, so please, constructive criticism is very much encouraged. I hope that it was worth the wait! And, as always, thank you so much to everyone who's been reviewing. You guys make my day.

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><p>PART IV: THE FLIGHT<p>

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><p>1.<p>

Harry was beginning to think that this had not been one of his more brilliant ideas.

His fork pushed the pasta back and forth across his plate. But he had barely taken more than four bites of his dinner; the panic expanding steadily in his chest unfortunately did not leave much room for an appetite.

An awkward, horrible silence had fallen over the kitchen, and Harry was not sure if he was more worried about breaking that silence or about how much of a complete disaster this night would surely turn out to be.

_What on earth was I thinkin_g? Harry thought as his pasta made its way to the left side of his plate for the twelfth time that evening. This was never going to work. He had no idea where to even begin. The night hadn't even begun yet, and he already felt sick to his stomach with nerves. How was he supposed to get anything accomplished with his insides churning like this?

"Harry?"

The raven-haired boy glanced nervously upwards from his barely-touched dish of spaghetti. Hermione and Ron were both staring at him from across the kitchen table like they had never seen him before.

"Hmm?" Harry returned his gaze to his plate. The last thing he needed was Ron and Hermione's concern and pestering questions.

"Is the pasta alright?" Hermione's voice was very small. Harry felt a little annoyed; they didn't have the right to be worried. He wanted to sit here in peace, and play with his pasta, and panic a little more before Voldemort returned from wherever the hell he had disappeared off to. Besides, what had he done to warrant their anxiety now?

"I'm not very hungry," Harry mumbled. His pasta travelled to the right side of his plate again, assisted by the absent-minded nudging of his fork.

"Do you want to tell us what happened yet?" asked Ron, and although his voice tentative, there was the barest hint of exasperation to it as well.

Harry sighed irritably. "I told you already, Ron, I'd rather not talk about it."

He heard the redhead huff across the table. "Then maybe you'd like to explain what we overheard."

Harry nearly choked on the mouthful of pasta he had taken to avoid the discussion of Malfoy's death. He looked quickly up at his friends, just fast enough to see the horrified glance Hermione had shot Ron at this turn in conversation. But the anger on Ron's face, the disgust on Hermione's, it was all enough for Harry to realize exactly what Ron was accusing him of.

Harry swallowed with difficulty, half-afraid that it would come right back up again. They knew.

"I just wish you had told us sooner, Harry." Hermione was looking at Harry pleadingly, her eyes wide and sad. "Maybe we could have helped you … you know, deal with it."

_Deal with it?_ Harry covered his face with his hands, embarrassment making his cheeks glow red. Oh, yes, he was sure that would have gone over quite well: Hey, guys, how are you doing in this dark and dirty cellar down here? Oh, and by the way, I agreed to get buggered by the Dark Lord so that I could come and visit you. Don't feel guilty or anything, he's actually a brilliant shag. Catch you later!

"I suppose I just wasn't sure how you would take it," Harry mumbled into the palms of his hands after a long silence.

"Well, blimey, Harry, it's horrible!" Ron said, sounding a little panicky. "But it's not about us, it's about you. We just want to be there for you, that's all. We were just … I s'pose it just hurt that we didn't find out directly from you, that's all."

"Well, I have to deal with this myself," Harry snapped. "How exactly would_ you_ have brought it up?"

"Harry," Hermione said, and there were tears glistening in her eyes, "we're not trying to anger you, we're just trying to support you. I mean, it must be awful, having _him_ inside you like that."

Harry nearly choked again, even though there wasn't any food in his mouth this time. He supposed that he'd rather be dead, screw the wizarding world and screw Tom Riddle, than having this conversation with his friends right now. "Oh no, it's bloody brilliant," Harry said, hiding his blush with his hands and trying to inject as much sarcasm into his voice as possible. "I love every second of it."

"Well maybe," Hermione said, a little desperately, "maybe we can use this against him!"

"And how exactly are we going to do that?" Harry shot back. "We're stuck here. No one knows where the hell we are, not even us. Even if it did give me some kind of advantage over him - which it doesn't, believe me - there's nothing we can do to escape."

"At least it all makes a little more sense now," Hermione responded quietly, sounding hurt. "The dreams, the visions, your scar hurting all the time. It all goes back to the Horcruxes. Honestly, we should have realized _ages _ago."

_Huh_?

Something loosened considerably in Harry's chest at that moment. He looked up, uncovering his face a little and peeking through his fingers. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Don't tell me you didn't realize," Hermione said a little too sharply, frowning at him. "If you're his Horcrux, obviously you're going to have a mental connection like that. And the Parseltongue as well - it's all because of your scar."

Harry stared at his friends, blinking. Relief was flooding his body like a cool, refreshing drink of water. They didn't know, they had no idea, of _course_ - they had been talking about the Horcrux! Harry very nearly started grinning stupidly back at them, but quickly stifled his happiness in favor of feigning confusion. "Oh," he lied, stuttering a little over his words in his giddiness and trying to think very quickly. "I … I guess I hadn't thought about that. I was so caught up in what it all meant for me, for the war …"

"Right," said Hermione hurriedly, pain tainting her voice again. "Of course, I'm sorry, that was terribly insensitive of me to assume -"

"It's fine," Harry interrupted, still struggling to mask his relief. "Don't worry about it. I should be the one apologizing - you should have heard it from me. I just didn't want for you to hurt any more than you needed to."

The mood of the rest of the meal was considerably lighter, despite the discovery his friends had made. But then Harry noticed that the daylight was beginning to fade through the curtains of the kitchen window, and dread settled in his stomach when he realized that he was no further to developing a plan than he'd been when Voldemort had left earlier this afternoon and informed him that he would be supping with his Death Eaters. This had, of course, dashed any vague thoughts Harry had had about a romantic, candlelit dinner, but he supposed this was for the best, seeing as he had spent the past seven years of his life eating food prepared by house-elves, and his only experience cooking prior to Hogwarts had been repeatedly burning Aunt Petunia's eggs.

Not to mention that it was decidedly difficult to imagine himself courting Voldemort over candles and pork roast, no matter how badly burnt, but that wasn't the point.

"I s'pose we ought to head upstairs, then," Ron said when they had all finished eating (although Harry had stopped again when he realized how soon and inevitable Voldemort's return was). The red-head looked nervously at Harry as he spoke - something he had been doing for the entirety of the meal, Harry had noticed, sneaking anxious glances at Harry when he thought that he wouldn't see. Harry might have been irritated, but the only thing his mind seemed to have room for at the moment was overwhelming panic.

For one desperate moment, he considered spilling everything to them, to try to get their advice on what the hell he could possibly do to get out of this situation. How could he ever have thought that this was remotely intelligent? Prove that Lord Voldemort, mass murderer and evil overlord, actually had _feelings_, or else the Golden Boy would be forever in his service? Maybe Harry didn't have to face this all alone after all; Ron and Hermione were here to help him.

And then Harry saw Ron giving him that look again, like he was some dangerous animal that might pounce on them at any moment, and the idea flew from his mind in an instant. Even if they got over their outrage and shock that Harry was sleeping with the Dark Lord - and, further, that he had bet his life on something so ridiculous - what advice could they possibly offer him?

They would never understand.

"Yeah," Harry said distantly, his mind tumbling over itself somewhere far away. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

The floor creaked beneath his trainers as he made his way to the living room. Everything seemed to distract him: the tea saucer on the table, the wrinkle in the carpet where Harry had lost his mind in Voldemort's mouth earlier that morning, the snowflakes dancing outside of the window. The boy found himself drawn to the snow, and a moment later his fingers were brushing against the cool glass as he looked for the first time out at the forest beyond the walls of the cottage. The ground was blanketed with white powder - there had to be a good inch out there, at least - and it occurred to Harry that this must be the first snowfall of the season.

Bright green eyes stared back at him in his reflection, tired and afraid. For a moment, Harry fancied that he saw his mother there, gazing sadly at what had become of her only son. But then there was a burst of wind, followed by the swirling of snowflakes, and Harry was only staring at himself.

A sudden shiver chased goosebumps across his skin, and his scar twitched, the sensation not entirely unpleasant. He expected the dread that washed over him, but it was awful all the same, the realization that Voldemort had returned and Harry still had no idea where to start with the gargantuan task set before him.

The front door opened and then closed. Harry's stomach plummeted straight through the floor with the sound. Wetting his suddenly dry lips, the boy turned away from the window and forced his feet to carry him to the hallway.

Voldemort was standing by the front door, donned in a majestic black travelling cloak. Harry's breath hitched a little at the sight of him, and he found himself wondering whether the sheer power of this man would ever cease to leave him breathless.

"Harry," Voldemort said, and there was an undeniable smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Pale fingers brushed away bits of snow from his shoulders, very bright against the black cloak.

Harry's stomach squirmed nervously. "Tom," he said back, ignoring the narrowing of Voldemort's eyes at the use of his given name. He hoped that it wasn't terribly obvious that he had absolutely no clue what he was doing, although distracting the Dark Lord with irritation probably wasn't the best defensive tactic.

"Well?" Voldemort looked at him expectantly, folding his arms across his chest. "You have me entirely at your mercy. What would you have me do?"

Harry swallowed, opened his mouth, closed it. Amusement flickered across Voldemort's face, and the realization that the other man was totally, completely aware of Harry's lack of preparedness made the boy want to disappear into the floor.

His red eyes never left Harry's face, but Voldemort's hand reached up to his shoulder to brush more snow off his cloak. Catching sight of the snowflakes, Harry was suddenly struck with inspiration.

"Let's take a walk," he blurted out, a little more desperately than he had hoped to have sounded. Voldemort arched en eyebrow. "I know I said we wouldn't leave the house," he added hurriedly, "but … it's the first snowfall of the year, isn't it?"

Voldemort paused, and it almost seemed as though he were giving the idea some thought. Harry allowed himself the brief, wild hope that Voldemort would agree - because if he didn't, Harry would have run out of luck. He'd been unsuccessful in generating any ideas in his hours of premeditation, and all he had left now was the hope that his spontaneous brilliance (_ha ha_) would rescue him from the hole he had dug for himself.

Fortunately, Voldemort, or perhaps even the fates themselves, seemed to be taking pity on Harry - and he rather thought the latter the much more likely of these two options - because, a few minutes later, the Boy Who Lived and his would-be murderer were stepping out of the front door into the cool evening air, both dressed in matching travelling cloaks and Harry hiding a small, triumphant smile.

The snowfall was gentle in the grey evening light, landing largely unnoticed on Harry's clothes, hair, nose, and melting immediately whenever it met skin. His trainers crunched against the snow that already covered the grass, and Harry took a deep breath, revelling in the smell of winter's arrival. As they ambled into the woods, the house slowly disappearing in the trees behind him, he felt Voldemort doing the same beside him, the connection between their minds relaxed and warm.

The worry that had churned his stomach only moments earlier had dissolved as easily as the snowflakes against the heat of his skin. He could deal with his foolish dare later; for now, there was only the gentle snow, and the whispering trees, and the warm, solid presence of Voldemort beside him.

They walked for a while like this, quiet, aimless, the only sounds the rustle of snow-covered leaves and the crunching of their feet in the snow. Harry could not tell if Voldemort was enjoying this stroll in the forest, but if the Dark Lord found it irritating, he did not say so. In fact, if Harry didn't know any better, he would think that the other man might have found their comfortable silence a pleasant thing. Their minds for once were both calm and relaxed, melting into each other instead of clashing disagreeably against one another as they usually did.

As they continued onward, it became clear that the forest in which their getaway was nestled was a large one, but Harry had yet to see any other signs of civilization around them: there was only a narrow stream that snaked through the trees, which Harry inevitably ended up walking alongside, wondering how much pressure it would take to crack the thin layer of ice stretched across the top.

"The Dursleys used to take holiday in Germany when I was younger."

Harry heard himself speak without really giving his mouth the command to do so. It was not out of a desire to break the comfortable silence that had fallen between them, but rather just a voicing of his thoughts, as though the path from brain to tongue had been eroded with Voldemort's intrusion on his life.

The Dark Lord, for his part, did not respond, merely continued staring straight ahead. Harry found himself wondering how the snow would look sprinkled across the silky dark curls of Tom Riddle. He could not tell if the snowflakes simply knew to leave Voldemort alone, or if the other man was just so pale that it was impossible to see the snow on his skin, but he looked untouched and magnificent in the fading grey light of the snowfall.

"Every year they would leave me behind," Harry went on, more to himself than to the silent Dark Lord, "but one summer, Mrs. Figg - she would watch me whenever they went to do anything expensive - well, she was ill, and they were forced to bring me along."

Harry ducked a little to avoid a branch sticking out in their path; Voldemort simply flicked his hand, and the entire bough bent easily out of the way for him.

"Something tells me you don't have a deep appreciation for nature's beauty," Harry mumbled, smiling a little up at the Dark Lord. Voldemort glared at him, his first response to Harry's antics since they had exited the house. Taking this as a sign of encouragement, the boy pressed forward with his story - although, where he was going with it, he still wasn't quite sure.

"Anyway, when I was nine years old, we went to Germany to spend two weeks over the holidays," Harry said. "It was along a river, a little like this, and there were other cabins nearby. There were Muggle children, nice ones, not like my rotten cousin." Harry rubbed his arms absentmindedly; the daylight was steadily fading as the sun made its descent in the sky, and the chill in the air was becoming sharper with each passing minute.

"They were nice to me," Harry added, not even sure if he was even speaking out loud anymore. "That is, until Dudley noticed that they were talking to me. They stayed clear of me for the rest of the vacation after that."

He sighed, realized that they had slowed in their pace as he'd rambled. The river widened slightly here, and Harry veered off their course a little to face the stream. The ice was thin indeed; he could see the water rushing beneath the ice when he leaned in closer.

A snowflake caught on his glasses, suddenly obstructing his view. Harry stopped walking and huffed a little in frustration, causing a puff of visible hot air to pass through his lips, before he took his glasses off and rubbed them on the cloak with which Voldemort had provided him.

"We're in France," Voldemort said off-handedly. The statement was simple, nonchalant, but it made Harry blink his blind eyes in confusion. He had not expected Voldemort to respond to his blathering, but here he was, not only responding but offering up some information about something else.

"France?" Harry slipped his spectacles back onto his nose, adjusting them as the tall, looming figure of Voldemort, dark against the blinding white of the gently falling snow, jumped back into focus. Unbidden, an image of Voldemort dining underneath the Eiffel Tower came to mind, rose petals decorating the table as a French musician crooned ballads with a guitar. Harry snorted before he could stop himself.

"Is something amusing?" Voldemort, who had been gazing out at the stream, turned his head slightly to glare reproachfully at any indication of Harry's amusement.

"No, no - I just," Harry couldn't stop the smile, so he turned his eyes back to the river, "you didn't really strike me as the romantic sort, is all."

It was Voldemort's turn to snort, a sound that was almost too human and entirely unfamiliar coming from the Dark Lord. Harry forced himself to keep his gaze fixed forward as the small triumph made his insides wriggle with pleasure. "I did not happen upon this place because of any foolish notions of romance, you ridiculous child," Voldemort corrected him, but his tone was lacking the bite that had characterized it for as long as Harry could remember. "Although, ironically enough, it did have everything to do with you."

Harry was too surprised by this statement to contemplate why Voldemort would connect Harry and romance with irony. "What are you talking about? I've never been to France."

The burning gaze of Voldemort's disapproval told Harry that this had not been the right answer. "Of course not. But_ I_ have, although I admit that it was very much against my will at the time."

Harry frowned. "I still don't think that I'm following you."

Voldemort sighed, and Harry found himself fascinated by the swirls of warm breath visibly escaping the man's lips. He shivered when he remember that he could do anything that he wanted right now, even stand up on his tip-toes and see what those swirls of warm breath tasted like for himself, but then Voldemort was talking again and Harry forced himself to listen.

"After the … unfortunate incident when you were an infant," Voldemort began, glossing over the matter of the murder of Harry's parents as though it were simply a peculiar weather event, "my spirit was forced to wander aimlessly for a few years. I was … weak. It was initially very difficult to gain control of my ethereal form, so my spirit was essentially anchored in this very forest we are walking through."

Harry winced. That didn't sound like it invoked very pleasant memories.

"But where does the house come in?" Harry asked before he could stop himself, his burning curiosity getting the better of him.

Voldemort shot him a sharp glance, silencing any further questions before they could climb up Harry's throat without permission. "I felt the tug of a magical presence in the forest one morning, and a strong one at that. I followed its pull until it led me to a cabin, the first dwelling I had found since I had begun wandering this damnable place."

Voldemort paused, shook some snow off of his cloak where it had begun to gather on his shoulders. Harry felt a little breathless as his eyes found the other man's lips again, pink against his pale skin.

"A strong magical presence indeed," Voldemort was continuing, jarring Harry's attention back, "but you wouldn't know it from his home or his life. He was an elderly man, living with an old Muggle wife. He chose to live in the wilderness to escape from his pureblood family, who did not approve of his marriage, and rightfully so, might I add." Voldemort sneered at the idea. "It was difficult for me to fathom. Here was a man, more talented than most, who had moved into some godforsaken forest in southern France - all so that he wouldn't have to use his magic. Such a waste of his gift."

Harry, of course, found himself immediately disagreeing with this statement. He could see himself escaping to a little cottage much like this one when the war was finally over, escaping from the expectations that everyone held for him, from the gasps and smiles and flattery that nearly drowned him whenever strangers got a glimpse of his scar.

_No need to worry about that_, Harry reminded himself sadly, _you'll be long dead by then. It's the only way the war can _be _over, remember?_

Harry glanced up at Voldemort quickly, suddenly afraid that the man had heard what he was thinking, but the Dark Lord was still staring contemplatively out over the river, blood red eyes lost in thought.

"I tried to possess him, of course," Voldemort said softly, still not looking at Harry. "He was the only human I had happened across over this entire stretch of the forest. But it was … more difficult than I had remembered. His bond with the Muggle woman was very strong. Sickening. I couldn't break it." He frowned at the ground, anger lighting his eyes up. "I was determined to break him, to break their silly love. He did have a strong magical core, after all, so I could put his body to good use."

Harry felt a chill at this idea. Voldemort truly only saw people as shells, husks to be used for his own purposes. He chanced a glance up at the Dark Lord, and saw that the man's frown had deepened.

"But then one morning, the Muggle didn't wake up. He couldn't find his wand, for he had buried it in the ground outside when they had first moved into the forest. And when he finally found it in the earth, it was too late to revive her." Voldemort narrowed his eyes in disgust. "The stupid fool then went ahead and ingested the entire contents of his medicine cabinet. He was dead a few hours later, the tears still wet on his face and his fingers curled around the Muggle's cold hands."

Harry blinked up in horror at Voldemort. What a tragic, touching, terrible story. But Voldemort could only stand here with hate and disgust twisting his features, harboring sixteen-year-old disdain for the couple.

"Love destroys people, Harry," Voldemort said, his voice curt and cold. "Nothing can come out of love but death."

"They died together," Harry said, unnecessary anger suddenly rising in his chest. He was reminded of his parents, angry that they couldn't have died holding each other in the same way, angry that they had needed to die at all. "I'm sure he wouldn't have chosen any other way."

Voldemort sneered. "You're a fool, Harry Potter," he said simply, but his tone lacked the conviction that used to sting Harry's thoughts and dreams like a slap in the face. "Love will surely kill you, too."

Harry frowned incredulously at him. "As if you'd let that happen."

Voldemort did not say anything for a few moments, turning his scarlet gaze on Harry with intense scrutiny. Harry had just started to feel uncomfortable when the Dark Lord finally spoke again. "Come. This frolic in the forest has gone on long enough. It is getting dark."

Indeed, the daylight was growing thinner through the tops of the trees, the shadows growing longer and darker around them. The Dark Lord spun around abruptly in a flurry of billowing black cloak. Harry sighed in frustration. Voldemort really was just being deliberately difficult, Harry was sure of it.

"You were only jealous of him, weren't you?" Harry called after the Dark Lord, his voice teasing as he sauntered behind him down the path. "I'll bet you just wanted a Muggle of your own to snuggle up with on a cold and stormy evening."

Voldemort snorted again from in front of him, but didn't turn around, continuing to walk forward. "You've caught me," he said dryly.

"I'm serious!" Harry said, hiding a smile, even though Voldemort was still refusing to look at him. "Something tells me that you haven't had nearly enough snuggling in your life."

Although the Dark Lord still did not turn to acknowledge him, Harry could feel the man's disdain for the idea rolling off his back in waves. "Unfortunately for you, Potter, that's not something I plan to rectify."

Harry smirked. "Well, fortunately for me, I get to do whatever I want tonight, remember?" He paused, waiting for a reaction. Voldemort still did not glance back at him.

"I can hardly contain my excitement."

Harry scowled, hurrying to catch up with him and feeling slightly irritated. "Would it kill you to make a joke that wasn't at my expense once in a while?"

Voldemort slowed in his step a bit and graced the boy with a pointed glare. "I confess, Harry, I find belittling your ridiculous notions of happiness much more fulfilling than - how did you put it? - _snuggling_ with a Muggle."

Harry sighed. This clearly was not working. No matter how amusing Harry may find the image of Voldemort cuddling up to an old Muggle woman, it seemed as though the Dark Lord was not going to even crack a smile at the idea.

He felt a stab of pity for Voldemort at that moment. He was suddenly reminded that this cold, awful man had never known love, had never had a childhood. Voldemort had never laughed at anything other than the pain of others.

Well - desperate times call for desperate measures.

Pausing for a moment in his step, Harry bent down to gather some snow into his hands. It was wet and icy against his bare fingers, but Harry ignored the sting of the snow on his skin so that he might quickly and silently pack it into a ball.

Here, at least, was something that Harry could best Voldemort at, and perhaps he could give him a taste of the childhood he'd been cheated of at the orphanage. Harry had been a valiant and hearty warrior in many a snowball battle with the Weasleys, and his packing skills combined with his Seeker's ability to pay close attention to his surroundings afforded him the concentration needed to detect even the slightest shift in -

There was an abrupt rustling in the branches above him, and the next thing Harry knew, he was totally covered, head to foot, in a giant heap of icy, wet snow.

Voldemort threw a casual glance over his shoulder, just quick enough for Harry to see the smirk on his lips. Scowling, Harry stepped out of the mound snow, shaking his head vigorously and sending chunks of snow flying from his hair.

"That's not fair!" Harry protested loudly, still brushing himself off and hating the whine in his voice. "You're supposed to make it into _balls_."

"Oh?" Voldemort whirled around gracefully. A smirk touched his lips, and the sight still sent a shiver down Harry's spine that had nothing to do with the snow up his shirt. "Pardon my inexperience."

Voldemort turned his palms upward, the cunning smile never leaving his face. As he raised his hands slowly in the air, snowballs, over a dozen of them, simultaneously rose up from the ground as well, perfectly formed and compact and the most artfully crafted snowballs Harry had ever seen.

But there was no time to be impressed. The boy's eyes could only widen in absolute horror. "Oh -"

* * *

><p>Many minutes later, Harry burst into the cottage, slamming the door shut behind him. He leaned against the door, breathing heavily, even as he heard snowballs still pelting against the side of the house like a hailstorm. The boy's face was flushed bright red from exertion and from prolonged contact with wintry precipitation, but the grin on his face was undeniable and real. There was snow <em>everywhere<em>, under every single article of clothing, which could also be attributed to the fact that he had tripped once or twice in the darkening wood during his flight back to the cottage, but that was besides the point - if he didn't know any better, Harry might think that Voldemort was actually playing with him.

The snowballs were still relentlessly pelting the side of the house. Still panting, Harry drew back the curtain covering the window beside the door and saw the Dark Lord leaning against a nearby tree, lazily waving his hand as though conducting a symphony in the dark. Snowball after snowball lifted from a pile of snow at his feet, zooming toward the door in quick procession. Voldemort's head turned in Harry's direction, a smile dancing across his lips, and with a flick of his wrist, a snowball splattered across the window, blocking his view.

Harry huffed impatiently, trying to hide his laughter. Gathering his courage, he cracked open the door, just wide enough for him to speak.

"I surrender!" he called out into the dark, the smile carrying on his voice. "I surrender, you win, you can stop n- _mmphf_."

A snowball had exploded in the crack in the door, and Harry backed away, spluttering with a face full of snow. "That's not fair!" Harry grumbled quietly to himself, taking off his glasses and spitting out snow.

"War isn't fair."

Harry jumped. Voldemort had suddenly appeared inside of the house in the short space of time that Harry had taken off his glasses. Harry hurried to replace his spectacles, feeling naked and vulnerable without his eyesight, and he glowered at the older man, resenting him for how warm and dry he looked in his travelling cloak as Harry struggled to shake the snow out of his clothes. "Yes, I would hardly say that killing infants is fair."

Voldemort shed his cloak with grace. "Now, now, Harry, every wizard old enough to speak knows that I quite famously didn't murder _any _infants."

Harry pulled on the front of his shirt, which was sticking to his chest from the snow underneath. There was a clump of snow down the back of his pants that was beginning to burn, and he shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "So that makes your tactics perfectly acceptable then." He pulled his cloak off, shaking it out with a grimace, and tried to figure out how he could escape to dry himself off.

Voldemort was staring at him with that strange look again, though, and the cloak slipped a bit between Harry's fingers as a shiver ran down his spine. "My ethics are no concern of yours," Voldemort said dismissively. "But ... we've yet to discuss the conditions of your surrender."

Harry swallowed. He should have known that the Dark Lord would find a way to gain the upper hand again. "I was surrendering to the snowballs, not to the war," he said hesitantly. "Just so we're clear."

Voldemort leaned back against the door, closing it, and raised an eyebrow. "But Harry, war doesn't stop for snowball fights," he said. "I thought that was a very clever offensive maneuver on my part. Besides, it's time the Boy Who Lived gained a more appropriate title, as you are hardly a boy any longer." Again, that dark, heated look in his eyes, making Harry's mouth go suddenly dry, before Voldemort added loftily, "Harry Potter, the Snowball Martyr."

Harry glared. "Funny," he said, uncomfortably aware of the icy water dripping down his pant leg. Ignoring the numbing cold in his backside, Harry raised himself up to his full height and said, "Well, it's going to take a lot more than a few snowballs to get rid of me."

Voldemort was nearly startled into a laugh. Nearly. "Yes, Harry, that was pure Gryffindor bravery you just displayed," he said wryly. "If I had only known earlier. The Golden Boy's greatest weakness: magical snowballs. It would have saved me a great deal of time and effort."

Harry flushed in embarrassment. But there was pleasure in the blush - he had almost made Voldemort laugh.

"But I digress - I believe we were about to determine the conditions of your surrender." Voldemort's eyes darkened considerably, and they darted down Harry's body without shame. The boy's flush deepened.

"Er …" Harry squirmed a little bit, bringing the cloak unconsciously in front of his body. "I can make a pretty good hot cocoa." The nervous sound of his laughter was a little too high-pitched for his liking. "Although I thought …" another squirm, "that perhaps, well, maybe later …"

_Smooth, Harry_. He found that the words wouldn't come, and he honestly wasn't sure what he had even been hoping to say - _that _certainly hadn't filtered through his addled brain before rushing out of his mouth.

Something unreadable flickered across the Dark Lord's face. But then the intensity in Voldemort's gaze subsided, replaced by an amused smirk. "A fair trade, I'd say," he declared at length, "considering the steep terms of our other standing agreement. I'll be waiting for that cocoa," he added in a voice that said he was used to ordering people around. And Voldemort brushed past him and walked into the living room without a backward glance.

Harry's mouth had gone very dry. The reminder of what exactly was at stake here - his life, the lives of his friends, the life of the wizarding world - struck him as suddenly as a lightning bolt. Night had already fallen, and Harry still hadn't developed a coherent plan for how he was going to prove that Voldemort was as human as everyone else.

_Get your act together, Harry_.

Taking a deep, ragged breath, the boy forced himself to head toward the kitchen and search for the hot chocolate mix.

A few minutes later, Harry was carrying two steaming cups into the sitting room. There was a fire burning in the hearth, and Harry's shivering body wanted to gravitate toward the heat, even though his trousers were decidedly less full of snow now that he had had a moment alone.

But the Dark Lord sat on the sofa expectantly, and Harry had a hot chocolate to deliver. He glanced warily at Nagini, who was resting languidly on the man's shoulders. Voldemort was stroking the snake beneath her chin with a slender, talented finger. She lifted her head when Harry entered the room, narrowed her yellow eyes, and gave a low, warning hiss.

Harry frowned, feeling a surge of inexplicable hatred for the serpent at that moment. Why did Voldemort enjoy the affections of this stupid, angry, possessive animal anyway? Harry glared at Nagini and nearly hissed right back at her, but then he caught the glimpse of amusement in Voldemort's face and flushed.

"Glad you think this is funny," Harry said grumpily, glaring at the Dark Lord. "She's threatened by me or something, you know."

"_My master is mine, human_," Nagini hissed in response, wrapping herself tighter around the man's shoulders. Harry swallowed and told himself that it was the demeaning way that the snake was addressing him that caused the resentment roiling in his stomach, not the declaration of ownership over the Dark Lord. _You can have him_, Harry thought to himself for good measure, but, to his disappointment, the resentment remained.

"_Nagini,_" Voldemort whispered in Parseltongue, distracting the serpent with another stroke under her chin, "_you will play nice with our guests._"

Nagini hissed unhappily, still regarding Harry with distrustful eyes. It was a few long moments before she opened her mouth again. "_Yes, master," _she responded begrudgingly.

"_Now upstairs." _Voldemort lifted the serpent off of his shoulders and placed her on the floor. Nagini sent what was unmistakably a venomous snake-glare in Harry's direction as she left, and the boy couldn't resist sending a brief, mocking _hiss _after her as she slithered into the hallway.

"I think she's rather warming up to you," the Dark Lord said, a smirk tugging at his lips. Harry tried not to frown too much - it was almost to the point of pouting, how often he was doing it now - as he settled himself beside Voldemort on the couch.

"She was trying to eat my friends," Harry mumbled into his cup of cocoa.

"Really?" Voldemort took a sip of his own hot chocolate. "How unfortunate."

Harry sent a sidelong glare in his direction. "You promised they wouldn't come to any harm."

"That I did." Voldemort sighed. "Very well. I'll have a talk with her."

There were a few moments of almost comfortable silence, in which they sat sipping at their hot chocolate and listening to the crackling of the fireplace. _Almost _comfortable, for Harry's mind was a windstorm of panic, aware of each passing second like another grain of sand falling in an hourglass. Although the evening had practically been a pleasant one, Voldemort had remained as distant and composed as ever; the only emotion that he had shown was condescending amusement, hardly something outside of his typical range of control.

Harry's gaze flitted across the room, settled on the chest in the corner. Inspiration struck him suddenly, and the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them:

"I know about Nicholas."

Voldemort stiffened beside him on the couch, the reflection of the flames dancing in his scarlet eyes. The silence in the room took on an entirely different flavor before the man responded again.

"I don't know anyone by that name."

That familiar thrilling fear, like playing with wildfire, lit inside of Harry again, giving him the courage to press the subject. "Not anymore, maybe. You did kill him, after all."

Harry's heart was racing in his chest. Very slowly, the Dark Lord turned his head to look at him. "You're treading in dangerous waters, Harry," he said quietly. "I suggest you leave it alone."

Harry swallowed. "I can talk about whatever I'd like tonight, remember?"

Voldemort's eyes darkened. There was a brief silence in which Harry wondered if he had stepped too far over the line. Finally, Voldemort spoke, his voice very soft and even. "Where did you get the idea that I've ever known anyone called Nicholas?"

"Your locket," Harry said immediately, trying not to glance at the chest, and then he added hurriedly, "yesterday," when Voldemort arched an eyebrow. No need for the Dark Lord to know that Harry could open the chest containing his soul. "You … well, the you that's in the locket, I mean … you showed me a memory."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Really." Harry found that he couldn't look away, that cold fear was spreading in his gut from the look in the other man's eyes. "Did it occur to you, Harry, the reason that I might have put that particular memory in my locket?"

Harry's wracked his brain, failed to come up with an answer, and looked down at his lap. "It … didn't cross my mind, no," he said, rather lamely.

Voldemort's eyes flashed viciously, and he set the mug of hot chocolate down on the table with measured care, his gaze never leaving Harry's face. "Because it is poisonous to me," he hissed. "Love is a poison. I came far too close to it for my comfort, Harry, and I almost lost sight of myself in the process. And for what?" Fire, raging in his eyes, consuming Harry whole. "For him to walk away from me, to attempt to steal from me an invaluable object, the worth of which his little Muggle brain would never even begin to grasp. Your precious _love _nearly lost me the heirloom of the great Salazar Slytherin."

"That wasn't love," Harry protested, heart thumping hard against his ribcage. He was very aware that this could all go downhill very fast, and his mind was scrambling for a way to press the subject without causing Voldemort to hex him. "That was hate. Your Death Eaters tried to torture and kill him. What the hell did you expect?"

"I saved him!" Voldemort hissed angrily.

"You saved him from yourself?" Harry laughed bitterly. "That's a pleasant thought. Building blocks for a nice, healthy relationship right there. He was probably scared out of his wits."

Voldemort snarled. "You presumptuous little brat," he spat. "Lord Voldemort does not have any need of _relationships_, least of all with Muggles."

"I don't believe you." Harry tried to calm his anger, swirling within him like a whirlwind, to see the silver of Tom Riddle's eyes in the scarlet pools flaming across from him. "In fact, I feel sorry for you."

"Spare me your pity," Voldemort snarled. "The Muggle in that memory is irrelevant now. This does not require further discussion"

"You're right," Harry said, shifting on the couch and gaining momentum and courage. It dawned on him that the subject was making the Dark Lord uncomfortable, and he was going to push it until he could figure out why. Placing his cup on the table beside Voldemort's, Harry turned to face him. "It goes beyond that."

"You're a fool."

"No one has ever loved you," Harry pressed on stubbornly, refusing to be intimidated by the ice in Voldemort's voice or the fire in his eyes. "How would you ever know compassion if you've never known love, or friendship?"

"I have no need of love," Voldemort spat, his voice dripping with contempt.

"Only because your only experience with it was with a selfish harlot," Harry shot back.

"I don't have any experience with it!" Voldemort responded, his voice a low, threatening hiss, and it was somehow more frightening than if Voldemort had been screaming at him. "And I do not plan to change that."

(_not the way this was supposed to go, not like this at all_)

Harry's heart jumped into his throat, but he managed to get his next words out despite the impediment. "That's not what your locket told me."

The look in Voldemort's eyes was positively murderous, and if Harry wasn't sure that Voldemort wouldn't dare destroy a piece of his own soul, Harry thought he might have fled from the room for fear of his life.

"Do you mean to imply - " Voldemort began, his tone checked and even but doing nothing to hide the fury simmering beneath it. Desperate panic was beginning to build in Harry's gut, and his mind was racing for a way to amend the situation.

"I mean to imply," Harry cut him off, ignoring the tight line Voldemort's lips made at the interruption, "that you should give it a chance." His hand was shaking when it reached out and brushed against Voldemort's arm. The man shrank back from him like he was dirty, scowling something fierce.

"You are a fool," Voldemort hissed again. "Your feelings rip you open, make you vulnerable - your _feelings_ led you straight to your enemy's doorstep. I might have killed you, and it would have all been the fault of your slippery grasp on your emotions. Love is the most unpredictable, uncontrollable, unreliable variety of such sentiment. What use could I possibly have for love?"

"It's not about finding _use_," Harry exclaimed exasperatedly. "It's about happiness. It's about finding fulfillment in life."

"I am the most powerful wizard in the world," Voldemort declared. "The only way I've ever believed my life could be more _fulfilling _was with you dead."

Harry bit his lip, angry. "You've never known any better."

Voldemort snarled. "I know a lot more than you do, you foolish, over-emotional child!" And he made a movement as if to get up from the couch.

(_no, no, this was _not _the way this was supposed to go_)

"No," Harry said, his eyes wide and pleading, and he reached out and grabbed Voldemort's arm firmly, preparing himself to be launched across the room in a burst of angry magic. When none came, he took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing his eyes to meet Voldemort's. They were as dark and angry as the inside of a volcano, and Harry wondered briefly if this was a suicide mission, if he was prodding at one of nature's most terrible and dangerous natural disasters.

_No going back now, Harry. You've already bet your life on this._

Ignoring his pounding heart, Harry decided to take the plunge. "Please. You said that I could do whatever I wanted to tonight." He swallowed, trying to summon his Gryffindor bravery. "Well … I want you to let me show you love."

Shock mixed with the anger in Voldemort's face. For once, it seemed as though the Dark Lord did not have a scathing retort to shoot Harry down. In fact, Voldemort seemed to be struck rather speechless.

Taking advantage of the momentary lull in the argument, Harry grasped the front of the man's robes, pulled him forward. Taking a deep breath, Harry leaned in and pressed his lips fully against Voldemort's own.

For a few moments, the Dark Lord only sat there, eyes still wide with fury, unmoving against Harry's mouth. But the boy refused to be put off and leaned in further, pressing brief, fleeting kisses against Voldemort's jaw. When Harry's lips were tracing Voldemort's ear, he felt the man relax under his touch with a shudder, and Harry moved back to face him again.

"Please," he breathed against Voldemort's mouth, and then, "Tom."

Voldemort inhaled deeply against him, closed his eyes, opened them again. "The night is yours, Harry," said Voldemort at last, and the tremor in his voice belied the carefully calm expression on his face. "Do with it what you will."

"Yes," Harry pressed his smile against Voldemort's lips.

And then the Dark Lord was kissing him back, and there was no more room for words in his mouth.

They stayed there like that for a long time. At some point, Harry had climbed into Voldemort's lap - or perhaps the man had pulled him there, he couldn't remember - and now Harry was grasping the Dark Lord's face between his palms, kissing him slow and deep. Voldemort had melted against the couch, relaxed and fluid underneath him, but the thrum of his power still vibrated beneath his skin, reminding Harry of what this person was capable, even as Voldemort parted his lips and let Harry's tongue stroke the inside of his mouth.

"Tom," Harry murmured again, as though he could coax the memory from between Voldemort's lips. "Tom."

And the Dark Lord did not resist, even as Harry pulled him to his feet and led him up the stairs, closing the door behind them. He even complied when Harry shyly asked him to put a silencing charm on the room, and he did not struggle when Harry pushed him gently against the door. But when Harry slid his hands along Voldemort's chest, suddenly longing to feel more of the man's skin, Voldemort's body tensed beneath him.

"Harry," said Voldemort, breaking away. There was a warning in his gaze, but also something else - fear?

Harry pressed his fingers more firmly against the older man's torso, looked up at him with shining, pleading eyes. "Let me," he said softly.

There was a long moment of hesitation, and then Voldemort's body softened beneath his, surrendering. Slowly, anticipation building in his stomach, Harry slid the man's robes off of his shoulders. They fluttered to the floor, but Harry was too enraptured with what he found underneath to notice - a slim, button-down shirt, black trousers. The shape of the older man's body, always hidden beneath layers of cloaks and robes, was unfamiliar territory, and Harry slid his hands down Voldemort's sides to settle on his hips, suddenly overcome with desire to map out every inch of Voldemort.

Pressing his lips to Voldemort's throat, just underneath his ear, Harry whispered the man's given name over and over again as his fingers came between them to undo the buttons of his shirt. He introduced his mouth to every bit of skin that was revealed to him, to pale, milky shoulders and a strong collarbone and a firm, hairless chest.

Voldemort made a small noise beneath Harry's lips, so soft that Harry almost didn't hear it.

The pulsing heat of lust was beginning to make itself prominent on the other end of the bridge that connected their minds, but there was also vulnerability, and hesitation, and perhaps even fright.

"_Tom_," Harry whispered soothingly, this time in Parseltongue, and Voldemort's shirt fell open, baring a creamy expanse of torso and stomach and perfect, unblemished skin. Ironic, how such perfection could be the product of a Dark ritual, and Harry was reminded briefly that his own blood was drumming in these veins, that the soul beneath this skin was also beneath his own.

Harry kissed his way across the center of Voldemort's chest. Beautiful, flawless, the skin of a god. Or perhaps of the devil.

"Harry." A hand stroked along his jaw, drew his eyes up to meet Voldemort's, and Harry was momentarily shocked by the nakedness he saw on the Dark Lord's face. "I have … never disrobed in front of anyone." The barest of hesitations, but it spoke volumes, coming from this person whose entire life revolved around control.

"Thank you," Harry said before he could stop himself, and he tenderly pushed the man's shirt off of his shoulders, sending that rustling to the floor as well and leaving the Dark Lord naked from the waist up. There didn't seem to be one hair on his body, but Harry was alright with that, was alright with all of it, really. Voldemort's body was like a piece of beautiful artwork, smooth and soft and warm and perfect. Harry wanted to memorize every inch of it, and he did, slowly and reverently, with lips following fingers.

And there was a trembling beneath Voldemort's skin, barely contained, but there all the same, following every space that Harry's fingers touched. He felt like the most powerful man in the world, the Dark Lord of the wizarding world melting beneath his fingertips.

When Harry dropped to his knees and his lips found the waistline of Voldemort's trousers, the man really did shiver, goosepimples raising across his skin. Harry lifted his eyes to find Voldemort staring at him intently, scarlet eyes darkened to a heated red-black, watching Harry's every move. There was color splotched across the man's cheeks, and his breathing had become uneven and shallow as Harry played with the button on Voldemort's trousers.

"_You will ruin me_." Voldemort's voice laced through the lust clouding Harry's mind, and the boy was not entirely sure whether or not he was supposed to have heard it.

Harry's teeth scraped along the slope where Voldemort's torso met his thigh, tugging the man's pants downward, and there was a sharp intake of breath from above him.

"_What are you doing to me?_" the Dark Lord whispered again, and though his lips were moving, the sound was only present in Harry's head.

The boy ran his palms up and down Voldemort's bare thighs, up his stomach, back down again. He leaned in and ran his open lips across the head of the man's length, revelling in the way Voldemort's thighs quivered beneath his fingers, the way that Voldemort's eyes fluttered momentarily at the touch of Harry's mouth.

"_Setting you free,_" Harry whispered through his mind, and he held Voldemort's smoldering gaze as he lowered his head.

There was no more talking for a very long time after that, verbal or otherwise.

* * *

><p>The gentle, measured rise and fall of the boy's bare chest. It was captivating, even and controlled, very different from the ragged rhythm of the carnal activities in which they had just indulged. <em>But just as beautiful<em>, the man thought before he could stop himself. Not that Harry would notice the stray, traitorous thought: his eyes were closed, his limbs and his breathing heavy with sleep.

Asleep. Voldemort brushed his fingers against the child's forehead, smoothing the fringe of dark hair out of the way. Such a fragile thing, the human body. He had never seen the beauty in it before, only weakness, but looking at Harry now, he could not imagine a more perfect vessel for his soul.

"I'm glad that it's you," the man whispered, barely audible, an impossible admission.

_You've lost, old man_, Voldemort thought to himself, trying and failing to feel bitterness at the thought. There was no doubt about it: he had not been able to lay still beneath the child's teasing, deliberate touches, but Harry had not protested as Voldemort tossed him onto the bed and ravished him. The most pleasant surrender that the Dark Lord had ever given - had losing ever tasted so sweet before? But he wouldn't know. He'd never lost anything before, willingly or not.

It was no matter. The child would come around another way, with time. He was sure of it.

Voldemort let his fingertips flit over the boy's scar for a moment longer before he lay down beside him, turning his back to the sleeping boy. Contrary to any foolish fantasies the child had conjured in that soft head of his, Voldemort was not about to hold him as they slept.

Behind him, a green eye cracked open blearily, and Harry smiled.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Sorry that there wasn't more smut :( I really tried, but it just wouldn't come. Hope it wasn't too sappy. Again, constructive criticism makes me a better writer, so if you've got a few minutes, let me know what you thought :) Thanks for reading!_


	21. IV:2

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort, sexual content

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

A/N: Wow, you guys are so amazing. Thank you so much for all of the reviews! I appreciate every single one, even though I'm not always the best about responding to them. Really, though, you guys make me so happy. I hope you like this next chapter. I'm afraid the transitions are a little abrupt, but again, I don't want to keep you guys waiting just so I can nitpick everything. And as usual, constructive criticism is welcome and much appreciated :) Have a delicious Thanksgiving!

* * *

><p>2.<p>

Warmth, and music, and a whirlwind of colors above him. Red hair tickles his cheeks, and his own eyes are staring back at him, overflowing with tears. His name falls over and over again from her lips, whispered like a prayer.

"You are loved, Harry," she breathes, pressing the words against his smooth, naked forehead. There is a crash below them; someone is shouting, and there are tears against his cheeks, but they are not his own. "You are so loved."

Red, red, the color of blood, the color of warm tickling hair and screaming and cruel eyes, appraising him with disinterest. Long, slender fingers, touching his face, his ears. Why does he feel as though they have touched him before? They remind him of another dark room, another dead woman, somewhere very far away from here.

Bright light, swallowing him up. Warmth, and music, and a whirlwind of colors.

The world is white and still. The forest floor is covered in snow, smooth and naked, but it is deceiving: the snow cloaks the dead leaves of autumn like a funeral blanket. Death, always lurking beneath perfection; you cannot have one without the other. Such words are familiar to him, but there is something strange and different about them at the same time.

There is a man in the wood, standing white and still. He is dressed in black, but his skin is pale, almost as white as the snow around him. There are snowflakes falling from the sky, and silver sunlight streams through the branches.

The man is looking over a river, unmoving, powerful. He turns to face forward, and Harry sees fierce red eyes - red, the color of anger, of passion, of hatred and love.

"You are loved, Harry," a woman's voice reminds him from afar, but as Harry stares at this person, radiating power and cruelty and hatred, it is hard to remember that there is such a thing as love. How can there be love with such a terrible person in the world?

_Neither can live while the other survives_. There it was - the original sentence, the one that started it all. It is up to you, Harry, to rid the world of this terrible creature, to bring love back into life.

The man stares at Harry for a moment longer, and then turns around and begins to walk away.

"Wait." Harry tries to follow him, but the snow is suddenly very deep, and Harry struggles to move forward, dragging his feet. "Wait."

The man continues walking away, floating, not impeded by the snow on the ground.

"Wait," Harry says again, and then suddenly he is right next to the man, only a foot away, so that, when Harry reaches out, his fingers brush against a smooth winter cloak.

The man turns to face him. He is nearly inhuman in his perfection, and Harry cannot remember what he wants to say, intimidated by his beauty. And then the red eyes soften a little, and there is a flash of grey, and Harry remembers all in a rush.

"Tom," says Harry softly, and kisses the man.

But he is no longer a man - he is a boy, with dark curls and flushed cheeks and a small, sad smile that does not quite touch his silver-red eyes as he pulls away from Harry. "I can't," the boy protests, and goes to walk away once more, but Harry kisses him again - he can't let him leave, he can't let him get away, something awful will happen if he does.

When the boy pulls away again, his eyes are silver, and there is no shadow nor shine of red there.

But his skin is pallid, pale. The flush is gone, and his lips are turning white, even as they turn upward into a sad grin. Panic and fear start to churn in Harry's stomach, and Harry grabs his shoulders, pulls the boy toward him.

"Tom," Harry says, "what's happening?" His skin feels white and cold like snow beneath Harry's fingers. Harry kisses him desperately, tries to kiss the heat and the life back into the boy's body. But when he pulls away, the color has vanished from Tom's face entirely, and the silver boy only gazes at Harry with deep, gut-wrenching sorrow.

"You are killing me, Harry," Tom says softly, and Harry sees with a jolt of horror that his skin is peeling from his face, flying off like white snowflakes. "Your touch is poisonous to me."

"No," says Harry, reaching forward and holding the boy's face with his palms, trying to keep him together, but it only seems to make it worse; the boy is coming completely undone beneath his touch, unraveling and dissolving like silver silk, fluttering in the air.

A breeze begins to blow around them, swirling the snow at their feet. Harry pulls him closer, holding him tight to his chest, even as the boy is evaporating beneath his fingertips.

_I'm helping you_, Harry thinks. _I'm saving you._

"You're killing me," Tom whispers, a breath of icy air. "You're ruining me."

Bright, cold snow, swirling around them, and the boy is melting between Harry's fingers, flying away like a thousand white birds, a million tiny snowflakes. Harry flails in the breeze, tries to clasp his fingers around bits of snow, bits of Tom.

But there is a gust of wind, and then Harry is left standing alone in a colorless forest, feeling more empty than he had when he'd entered it.

* * *

><p>Hands gripped his shoulders and shook him roughly. The snowy forest dissolved behind his eyelids as quickly as Tom had vanished through his fingers.<p>

"Up, you idiot boy, _up_."

Harry knew that voice very well, and it stirred an anger in him so intense that all thoughts of red hair and the snowy wood and Tom were swallowed up in his loathing.

"Sometime this century, if you'd please."

Harry sat up with a start, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Surely, this had to be a nightmare of some sort. Any moment now, he would wake up - _really _wake up - and Voldemort would be next to him, all sleep-warm skin and heavy limbs.

Funny, Harry thought to himself; when did _that _stop being a nightmare?

"Potter, the Dark Lord has given me permission to use whatever means necessary to rouse you from this bed. I will ask politely one final time: _get up._"

"I'm up, I'm up," Harry grumbled, his fingers groping searchingly at the blurry nightstand to his left. They found his glasses, and as he pushed them up the bridge of his nose, Severus Snape's sneering face came into focus, standing over the head of his bed. Harry glared at him and went to push the blankets off before he realized that he hadn't bothered to put his clothes back on before he'd fallen asleep last night. Harry froze, a furious blush blossoming across his cheeks.

"Potter, although I'm aware that there are several members of your fan club that might pay good money to watch you sleep all morning, I do not count myself among them."

"Er, sir …" Harry stammered, hiking up the covers further, but Snape cut him short with a withering glare. Harry suddenly felt like he was a first year in his Potions class again, having produced the entirely wrong color in his cauldron.

"I am a potions master, Mr. Potter," said Snape, a little uncomfortably. "I am well aware of the natural biological reaction that follows a night's rest."

Harry spluttered, staring in disbelief at his former professor. Well, this certainly was never a conversation Harry expected to be having with Snape, of all people. "What? No - no, that's not - it's not - " He was blushing even harder now. _Thanks, but _that_ particular problem vanished as soon as I realized who it was that was waking me up. _"I'm just … not exactly decent."

Snape blinked, his gaze flitting momentarily down the bed. It was almost worth the embarrassment of the whole situation just to watch Snape's eyes nearly bulge out of his head when it dawned on him.

For the first time that Harry could ever remember, the potions master seemed to be struck speechless.

"If you could just … er, step out for a minute," Harry mumbled, blush darkening impossibly. Snape did not respond. Harry glanced up again, and found himself rather taken aback by how suddenly _livid _Snape looked. What the hell had Harry done to deserve _that_? Surely the man couldn't blame him for the situation Harry had been forced into - it wasn't his fault!

Although that had never stopped Snape from holding things against him before, Harry reminded himself bitterly.

But Snape did not lash out at him, or even sneak in a nasty comment. There was only a brusque, "Be quick about it, then," before the potions master swept from the room in a whirl of black, billowing robes.

Frowning with confusion, Harry waited for the door to close behind Snape before he climbed gingerly from the bed. There was a dull throbbing in his rear that left no doubts as to whether or not _that_ particular aspect of the night had been in his dreams. The room was cold, and Harry was shivering by the time he found his trousers shoved hastily underneath the bed.

Harry paused in front of a mirror, running his hand uselessly through his hair. Now that he was relieved of Snape's suffocatingly negative presence, Harry found that his bitterness was directed back toward Voldemort again. Why the hell couldn't the Dark Lord have woken Harry up himself? He certainly hadn't had qualms with doing a great number of _other_ things to Harry the night before. What was Snape even doing here?

Perhaps this was Voldemort's sadistic way of getting back at Harry for showing him such a wonderful night - by sticking him with the one person that Harry's ever hated possibly more than Voldemort himself.

Harry emerged from the bedroom a moment later, dressed in the outfit Voldemort had conjured for him the day before. Snape was waiting outside in the hallway, having regained his composure and returned to his usual stoic, monotonous self. The potions master was assessing the hallway with narrowed eyes, and it suddenly occurred to Harry that Snape had never been to the cottage before - that, in fact, no one else was supposed to know about it besides Voldemort himself.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" said Harry, frowning.

Snape's dark eyes settled on Harry. "I could ask the same of you," Snape said, his eyes flaring angrily. "The acclaimed Savior of the wizarding world finally surfaces after months of hiding - not to engage the enemy in a heroic final battle, but to deposit his idiotic self right onto the Dark Lord's doorstep." The tone of his voice was low, quiet, and dangerous, reserved for those situations in which Harry had broken a particularly significant school rule. "Potter, did you truly expect that you could handle the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters single-handed?"

Harry bit his tongue, fists clenching at his sides. That visceral, seething reaction, the one that could only be summoned by Severus Snape, that had tainted every single one of his school years and earned him countless detentions and hundreds of points from Gryffindor house, was bubbling in his gut.

_Control your emotions, Harry._

"You've caught me, professor," Harry ground out, managing to keep his voice rather mild and light considering the turmoil roiling in his gut. "I just missed being in the spotlight."

Snape took a swift step toward Harry and grabbed the boy's upper arm firmly, his eyes boring into Harry's. "Mr. Potter, can you even begin to comprehend the number of witches and wizards that risk their lives for the sake of your pathetic well-being every single day?"

"You mean the ones that you're trying to kill?" Harry said, his voice rising and bitter, refusing to be intimidated by the proximity of his former professor. "What the hell do you know about risking lives? You murdered a man that trusted you, just to save your own hide!"

Snape's face darkened considerably, and Harry was afraid for a moment that the man would strike him. Why did he have such a talent for angering dangerous wizards when he was without his wand?

But then Snape's face screwed up in an almost pained expression, lips thinning into a tight line, and the man took a deep breath.

"I suggest you find a cloak; I was not summoned here to be barraged by your infuriating questions," Snape said dismissively, releasing Harry's arm and pushing him away in the same motion, closing off his fury like a curtain across his eyes. Harry watched Snape raise the wall so quickly between them, and Harry envied him for it.

Snape began to descend the staircase, and the boy followed a few steps behind, glaring into the back of his former professor's head. He rubbed his arm where Snape's fingers had pinched into it - the man really had gripped him rather forcefully - and followed Snape down the stairs, trying to keep his scowl to a minimum. Harry found the travelling cloak that Voldemort had procured for him yesterday hanging neatly just inside the foyer, and as he fastened it around his neck, he caught the potions master appraising him with disdain.

"Tasteful as always, Potter," Snape muttered in a voice that suggested Harry was anything but. "I can understand now why the Dark Lord has requested for you to be outfitted with new robes."

"Pardon?" Harry frowned down at his clothing, which, albeit a little dirty, was nicer than the limited wardrobe he had been sporting since he and his friends had gone into hiding. "Your Dark Lord_ conjured _these clothes for me, thanks."

Snape sneered and flicked his wand, unlocking the front door with a _click_. "Then I would hardly like to know what you were wearing before."

"Why should Voldemort care about my clothes?" Harry asked, frowning. _I think he rather likes me without any at all_, added an unwelcome voice in his mind. But then Harry jumped back in surprise when Snape rounded on him.

"How many times must I remind you that this is not a game?" Snape demanded, anger curling his lips into a snarl. "The Dark Lord requires a certain amount of respect and decorum from his followers, including the appropriate dress when they are in his presence."

Harry blanched. "Appropriate dress? I'm not going to dress like a Death Eater, if that's what he expects."

"You will dress in whatever fashion the Dark Lord requires of you," Snape ground out, that dark outrage contorting his expression again, the very same that had swept Snape out of the bedroom before like it was on fire. "I am not sure why he is keeping you alive and well-clothed, Mr. Potter, but I can assure you that it is not because he has been charmed by your endearing graces. He is the same dangerous, powerful wizard that he was when he was trying to kill you. Are you aware of the attack that took place yesterday afternoon?"

Harry swallowed, remembered icy blue eyes filling with tears and Malfoy's bloodied face screwing up in pain as Voldemort kicked him in the stomach. "I am."

"Then you know that he has not retained such sympathetic gestures for others who have gotten in his way," Snape said, his words measured and precise. "And I beseech you, Mr. Potter, to not get in his way. If you value your life, you will not give the Dark Lord any reason to turn his wrath to you."

Snape turned around and opened the door. Pulling his cloak tighter about his body, Harry followed him out into the cold, his mind reeling. If he didn't know any better, it might have almost seemed as though Snape actually cared about him.

* * *

><p>The snowfall apparently had not been isolated to their small stretch of forest. After Harry had recovered from the now-familiar, very unpleasant experience of Side-Along Apparation, he found himself a little breathless at the sight of the beautiful, quaint, snow-covered village of which they were standing on the outskirts. The winter sun, no longer obscured by snow-clouds, seemed to make everything twice as bright as it usually was, especially with all of the blindingly white snow draped across the landscape, and Harry had to squint a little behind his spectacles to notice that there were people at a distance walking about, smiling, waving, chatting.<p>

Snape had already begun walking purposefully toward the village, not bothering to glance behind him to see if Harry was following.

"Where are we?" Harry called after him, hurrying to catch up.

"That is none of your concern," said Snape, still not looking behind him. They had emerged onto a cobblestone road now that led into the village, which was clearly toward where Snape was headed. Harry followed close behind, shivering a little; a bit of snow had gotten up his ankles when they had Apparted.

"And where is Voldemort?" asked Harry, beginning to feel annoyed.

"He had more important matters to attend to than babysitting a teenager on a shopping spree," Snape responded, and although Harry couldn't see it, he could hear the sneer in Snape's voice.

"And you didn't?"

"The Dark Lord trusts me," the potions master snapped. "And, considering his alternatives, I was least likely to allow you to come to any harm, which he has been rather insistent about lately."

Harry nearly snorted at that - Severus Snape, voted most likely to treat Harry Potter with fragile care. "How ironic."

Snape threw a cold glare over his shoulder in Harry's direction. "You see irony in this, Potter? I could summon Bellatrix Lestrange, if you'd prefer her company,"

And although Harry knew that Snape would not do such a thing - disobeying the Dark Lord's orders did not seem to be something Snape would take lightly - Harry shut up after that, rather nauseated by the thought of his godfather's murderer accompanying him on a journey into this peaceful, quiet French village.

There were houses, now, with Christmas wreaths and children and snowmen. It occurred to Harry that it must be nearly Christmas. He wondered if Ron and Hermione had thought about the holiday at all. They hadn't been keeping track of the date while hunting for Horcruxes; one day had very much blended into the next, and before they knew it, the leaves were turning and the first snowfall had come upon them.

"Bonjour," said a middle-aged woman passing them, wearing a purple robe. A small boy was walking beside her, a broomstick in one hand and the woman's hand in the other. A wizarding village, then. Harry instinctively went to flatten his bangs against his forehead, the habit of hiding he had developed over the past few months getting the better of him, before he saw that neither the child nor the woman were looking at him with anything other than the friendly regard of strangers meeting on the street.

_They don't recognize me._

No wonder Voldemort had whisked them outside of England to go into hiding: perhaps the war had not yet touched this part of the continent.

This also explained how inordinately _happy _everyone seemed to be. As they proceeded down the street, the villagers invariably greeted them, smiled, waved, and those that didn't were busy clearing snow from the paths in front of their doors with their wands and didn't notice Harry and Snape as they passed. There were young children everywhere as well, running one after the other, giggling and pelting each other with snowballs.

"This way, Potter." Snape was headed toward what appeared to be the village square. There was a small crowd gathered here, witches and wizards carrying bags and exchanging holiday greetings. It seemed that this was the commercial center of the small village; there were storefronts advertising cauldron sets, broomsticks, and holiday deals. Three wizards with pointed hats had set up chairs in the middle of the square, bundled in woolly scarves and hats, and they were playing Christmas carols on string instruments.

The shop Snape was headed toward was at the end of the square. The sign hanging above the door read "Vêtements De Qualitê," and there was a variety of wizarding robes hanging in the front window. Casting one last wistful glance toward the broomstick shop, Harry followed Snape inside.

A tinkling bell rang above the door as the pair entered the store. Harry had just enough time to get one good look around - many racks, some stacked one on top of the other, with robes, dresses, trousers, and cloaks in every color imaginable - before a plump, middle-aged woman in a pointed hat and curls down to her back flew over to them and began speaking rapidly in French.

Harry's eyes widened. Was he supposed to respond to her? They had never been taught foreign languages at Hogwarts. He wracked his brain for any French vocabulary in his memory, particularly something that could express that he did not understand a single word she was saying.

At this moment, however, she grinned and pulled him into an awkward hug, still chattering in a steady stream of French. She pinched his cheek as she pulled away, grinning, and then asked what sounded horribly like a question, hands clasped together in front of her enormous bosom.

To his relief (and immense surprise) Snape extended his hand to the woman in Harry's stead - he was actually smiling! - and responded to her in fluent, flowing French. Harry was practically gaping at the older man, having transformed into a completely different person who spoke French and smiled at strangers.

After a few minutes of intense conversation, the witch was nodding emphatically, tut-tutting as she glanced at Harry's current outfit again. The boy was able to resist the urge to squirm under her examination; he had been appraised in such a manner so often over the past few days that it almost no longer made him uncomfortable. She offered Harry another knowing smile before she swept away to start rifling through the racks.

Harry looked at Snape, aware that his eyes were still wide with shock at the display he had just witnessed. "Sir, where did you learn to speak French?"

Snape sent him a sidelong glare. "Contrary to popular belief, Mr. Potter, I occupy myself with quite a few activities in my spare time that don't involve drinking my students' blood."

_Right, like murdering your superiors. _But at that moment, the bouncy witch was hurrying back over, her arms overflowing with trousers and button-down shirts. She said something else in French in Snape's direction, and then, smiling, deposited the stack of clothing into Harry's arms. Snape gave her another tight-lipped smile, and she hurried away to keep looking through the racks.

"She would like you to try those on," Snape said dryly, looking as though he would rather be doing anything else in the world than watching Harry try on clothes. "To ascertain the proper_color_ for your wardrobe, that is. There is a fitting room in the back through the hall there; do try not to break anything"

Harry stumbled toward the back of the store, past the counter, barely able to see past the pile of clothes in his arms. He made his way into a dim hallway, which was lined with chairs weighed down by their own heaps of clothing.

For the first time since they had left the cottage that morning, Harry's pestering conscience chimed in with the rest of his thoughts. Shopping for new clothes to dress up for the Dark Lord was all well and good, but perhaps he could use this opportunity to make a run for it when Snape wasn't looking. He couldn't Disapparate - he needed his wand to do that - but maybe, if he got away from Snape, he could steal one. Harry was out of the house, Voldemort wasn't with him, and he was surrounded by friendly witches and wizards, some of which might even be able to help him. This might be one of his only chances to make a getaway.

And then he remembered Ron and Hermione, sitting in the spare bedroom at the cottage, and the excitement in Harry's chest deflated like a popped balloon. He would be sentencing his friends to their deaths by running away. There was no way he could escape without them, or Voldemort would kill them in an instant.

Harry tried to feel disappointed at the thought of spending another night with Voldemort, and then tried to feel bothered that he had failed. Reckoning that he was fighting a losing battle, the boy bit his lip and turned his thoughts elsewhere.

Harry had been squinting his eyes in the weak light, trying to figure out which door he was expected to go into, when suddenly his foot caught on something on the floor. In one graceless movement, Harry was sent sprawling across the floor, clothes flying from his arms and scattering across the rug.

Swearing, Harry scrambled to his knees, hurrying to pick them up, when he saw out of the corner of his eye one of the piles on a chair _moving._

"'Arry Potter?"

The boy nearly yelped, but stopped himself just in time. He was on his feet in an instant, fingers automatically clenching at his empty back pocket, where his wand was usually stowed away.

"Who's there?" Harry said, trying to sound menacing. But the awareness of his missing wand pressed against the back of his mind like a dead weight, and he found that his voice was trembling.

The pile moved again, and Harry realized with no small amount of relief that it wasn't a pile at all, but a woman with silver hair and silver eyes. It was her striking beauty, completely unrealistic for someone her age, that made Harry realize who she was.

"Madame Delacour?" Disbelief made his eyes grow wide, and Harry's jaw dropped open.

She rose to her feet gracefully, long silver hair tumbling over her shoulders, and hushed him with a frightened expression and a long finger to her lips. Despite her mundane outfit and her age - and Harry's recent discovery of his sexuality, for that matter - she still managed to take the boy's breath away, her Veela blood singing in the air like a drug.

"I am no longer a Delacour," she said in a heavy French accent, her voice soft. She sent a wary glance out the doorway that led into the shop, where the storekeeper could still be seen rummaging through the racks, and then yanked Harry roughly over to a darker corner of the hallway.

"Pardon?" Harry said, confused.

"I am in 'iding," she whispered, her gaze never leaving the doorway as she spoke. "Your Ministry eez seeking my daughter's 'usband. Zey came to my 'ome looking for Bill, and zey … " Her voice broke a little, and her eyes filled with tears, momentarily darting downward from where they had been fixed on the door. "Zey murdered my 'usband." She paused, sniffling.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, not sure what else to say or if he was expected to comfort her.

"I 'ave not spoken to Fleur in months," the woman went on as though he had not spoken, for which Harry felt immensely grateful. "Zey have gone into 'iding as well … and 'ere am I, a Delacour, a wealthy woman, disguised as a seemple seamstress!" She drew herself to her full height, much taller than Harry, and the boy was again struck by how beautiful she was. "Ah, but it eez all for ze best. I would do anyzing for my cheeldren."

"Madame," Harry said quietly, careful not to mention her surname again when she glared at him warningly. "Madame, I need you to send a message to the Weasleys for me about - "

"No!" the woman cried softly, interrupting him. Her eyes grew very wide, and she took a step back. "No, I will do no such zing, I am in 'iding for ze safety of my daughter and 'er 'usband - "

"Madame, please," Harry begged, trying to quiet her before she got too worked up. It would be best for both their sakes if Snape did not overhear this confrontation. "You-Know-Who has kidnapped me - Ron and Hermione, too - he's hiding us in a cottage in a forest, here in France - "

"No, no, no!" she repeated, terror twisting her beautiful face. "If zey find me, if zey torture me, Fleur will no longer be safe - "

"If you don't help me, you'll be in hiding for the rest of your life," Harry interrupted her, frustration tightening a knot in his chest. How long could he stay in here under the ruse of trying on clothes before Snape grew suspicious? "Please, just send along the message for me."

Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before settling into a thin line, and anger flashed across her eyes. "Ze wizarding world is no longer a good place, 'Arry Potter. You are naive. 'E is too powerful for you."

_You've got that right. _"Please," Harry said again, gathering the clothes up off of the floor. There was an open door at the end of the hall, and Harry could see a mirror through the doorway - this was clearly where he was expected to change.

"You never saw me," the half-Veela hissed quietly before settling into her chair again, where she returned to hemming a pile of robes with her wand.

When Harry emerged from the fitting room a few minutes later, having thrown on the first pair of pants and shirt that fit him, Harry could not tell if she had vanished or if she had simply blended back into the shadows of the room, out of his sight.

* * *

><p>By the time they had returned to the cottage, Harry thought it was quite the miracle that he had not strangled Snape with his bare hands, magic be damned. Any stray, absurd thoughts that Harry had entertained about Snape caring about his livelihood had flown straight out the window; the potions master had easily fallen back into his usual condescending, belittling routine of provoking Harry nearly beyond his capacity for self-control. The man had criticized Harry about every aspect of his behavior that afternoon, down to the way he ate his lunch when they stopped for sandwiches.<p>

At least, Harry thought, it did not seem as though Snape had overheard his strange conversation with Madame Delacour. Not that it mattered: the half-Veela had made it very clear that she had little intention of helping Harry and his friends either way.

"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Potter." Snape's voice was laden with sarcasm as Harry stormed into the house.

"You're letting in the cold air," Harry snapped irritably, taking off his new cloak - heavy, black wool with a nice silver clasp in the front. The rest of his new clothing, bought with money that was courtesy of Voldemort himself, was folded neatly inside a paper bag on the floor.

"Perhaps you're referring to that draft inside of your empty skull," Snape said mildly, not bothering to close the door. Harry's teeth dug painfully into the side of his cheek. "I do hope you don't address the Dark Lord with such insolence. He is not a patient man."

"Well, he doesn't act like a maddening prat toward me!" Harry blurted out before he could stop himself. For one wild moment, he was afraid that Snape was going to take points, and then he remembered with no small amount of satisfaction that he was no longer in school. And then he realized exactly what he had just revealed, and he forgot to feel satisfied.

"Foolish, arrogant, ungrateful brat." Snape was snarling. "I suppose you're proud, aren't you, that even the Dark Lord cannot resist the charms of the great Harry Potter."

"I didn't ask for this!" Harry couldn't stop himself from yelling, and there was that reaction again - anger, red and hot, boiling beneath his skin. Just for Snape.

"No, you only offered yourself to him on a silver platter," Snape said, sneering. "Perhaps if you extracted that rumpled head of yours from the ocean of self-pity in which you've been wallowing, you would appreciate the great sacrifices many others have made on your behalf!"

"What do you know about sacrifice?" Harry yelled furiously.

"More than you have _ever_ deigned to observe, you pompous little wretch," Snape snarled. "Good day, Mr. Potter."

The window beside the door shook with the force of the door slamming shut.

Harry was still seething an hour later when he brought sandwiches up for Ron and Hermione. He did not invite them outside of their room, unsure of whether Voldemort wanted them wandering the house, even though the Dark Lord had left their door unlocked. He didn't talk very much, either, and it was with great concern that his friends bid him farewell when he abruptly excused himself.

That humming in his scar, not an uncomfortable sensation, had alerted him to Voldemort's return. As he descended the staircase, Harry wondered vaguely if Voldemort ever felt a prickling inside of his own head when Harry was upset or angry.

"Anger, I can deal with." The sliding, silky voice of his enemy surprised Harry. He had not heard the front door open, or even close for that matter. But sure enough, Voldemort was standing in the hallway at the mouth of the living room, leaning against the doorjamb. "I'll admit that there are other strong emotions that you entertain that I'd rather not be privy to, although," and here, there was an unmistakable smirk, "there was certainly very little of that today."

"You think that was funny?" Harry folded his arms and glared at the Dark Lord accusingly. Voldemort shrugged off his travelling cloak elegantly, not bothering to hide the amusement glittering in his ruby eyes. "You're a git, you know."

"My, Harry, such insolence," Voldemort murmured mockingly, still smirking. "I ought to punish you."

Harry shivered, and it had very little to do with any draft, inside of his head or otherwise.

"Don't you think that spending the day with Snape was punishment enough?" Harry muttered, averting his eyes. Voldemort actually chuckled at this, and it really was a nice sound, even if it sounded so unnatural coming from those lips.

"I rather thought it might be a learning experience," Voldemort responded. "A fantastic opportunity for you to practice the regulation of your emotions."

Harry laughed dryly, remembering his earlier urges to wring the potion master's throat. "I did show a remarkable amount of self-control, that's for sure."

"Self-control?" Voldemort's voice was soft and thoughtful, dangerously so, and when Harry looked up, he was surprised to see how close the other man stood to him. The boy swallowed, suddenly feeling a little dizzy, and backed into the railing of the staircase. "Perhaps it's time for a … what's the term … ah, a pop quiz, then, hm?"

A finger stroked along his jawline, and Harry shuddered again, closing his eyes. Voldemort chuckled again, the sound darker, more significant, than before.

"Let's see if you've accomplished anything today, then," Voldemort murmured against the boy's ear, and there was a warm tongue touching his earlobe, followed by teeth, tugging gently.

"I - I bought new clothes," Harry breathed out in a rush, trying to feel affronted at the man's suggestion and failing. Voldemort's fingers were brushing against the nape of Harry's neck now, and the sensation seemed to travel down his spine like an electric current.

"Yes, very good," Voldemort murmured, the words still hot and close to Harry's ear, and a hand slid up the boy's side underneath his shirt. Harry let out an unsteady breath as a fingernail scraped against his nipple. "I can hardly wait to get you out of them."

Voldemort extracted his hand from beneath Harry's shirt, letting it nudge gently at his left hip. Obedient, Harry allowed himself to be led up the stairs, relieved when Voldemort flicked his hand at the spare bedroom to lock the door and raise a silencing charm.

"Where were you today, anyhow?" Harry asked, a little too breathlessly for his taste, trying to clear his head of the desire fogging his thoughts.

"Something came up," Voldemort responded sharply from behind him, pushing Harry more urgently toward the bedroom with a hand at his lower back. "Something I would rather not discuss. I've much more agreeable prospects to look forward to at the moment."

Anticipation, hot and lovely, coiled in the base of his stomach. Walking compliantly into the bedroom, Harry tried to feel guilty about how much he had learned to enjoy this game, tried to tone down his hopes that things might actually be improving with his quest to cure the Dark Lord of his homicidal insanity.

Neither of these attempts were successful, though, especially when Voldemort shut the door and proceeded to press himself flush against the back of Harry's body. The boy let out a small noise despite himself, and when a hand ghosted across his abdomen beneath his shirt, he let his head fall back against Voldemort's shoulder, trying to regain his breath.

"Self-control," Voldemort pressed the word with a brush of his lips, _oh_, right behind Harry's ear; Harry breathed in sharply, eyelashes fluttering against his flushing cheekbones, his skin singing with arousal, "Self-control, Harry, is the ability to restrain the expression of your emotions and desires in your behavior. Fluctuations in your breathing, the blush on your cheeks, your inability to follow simple directions," and, god, if Voldemort hadn't been murmuring this all so hotly right into Harry's ear, perhaps Harry would have been offended, "it all betrays your thoughts."

Harry swallowed, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He had half a mind to ask why any of this mattered when Voldemort could read his bloody thoughts as it was, but then he noticed the hardness pressing into the cleft of his arse, and he directed all of his coherent thought to suppressing the urge to grind backward onto it.

"Good," Voldemort all but purred, releasing him. Harry swallowed, opened his eyes, but did not move. The Dark Lord emerged on his left, walked around to stand directly in front of Harry, and seated himself gracefully on the bed. He regarded Harry with heated, dark eyes, and Harry's cock twitched in his trousers when they gave him a very obvious, purposeful once-over.

"Strip."

Harry's fingers immediately flew to the buttons of his shirt. He clumsily began to undo them, but his fingers were trembling, and he couldn't get them off fast enough. He froze when Voldemort spoke again:

"Slowly."

Oh, wow, this should have been humiliating, but Harry couldn't remember having ever been so aroused without being touched down there before. His hands still shaking, the boy slowed his pace, popping out each button slowly. He tried to meet Voldemort's eyes, but the intensity in them made him look away to concentrate on his task time and time again. A moment later, the shirt fell open, revealing his naked chest, and the boy let it fall to the floor unceremoniously.

Voldemort's gaze was impossibly heavy. "Continue."

Harry swallowed, his heart pounding a tattoo against his ribcage. His fingers released the button of his trousers, and the sound of his zipper slowly clicking itself undone was the loudest thing in the world at that moment, followed by his beating heart and his ragged breathing.

Harry hooked his thumbs beneath the waistbands of both his trousers and his boxers, and he pushed them both down his legs, stepping out of them carefully. Those joined his new shirt on the floor as well, and then he was standing there, naked, his erection already leaking and his blood pounding in his veins and nothing to do but wait for Voldemort to speak again.

"Run your hand across your chest." Voldemort's voice was low, soft; Harry's breath caught in his throat at the sound of it. Swallowing, the boy raised his fingers and traced them along his chest obediently. The touch of his own hand took on an entirely different feeling under the weight of the Dark Lord's gaze.

"Down your stomach now." The voice travelled down his abdomen, and his fingers chased it, slowly, purposefully. He realized that Voldemort was enjoying this as much as he was, but god, that made him even harder.

"Up and down your thigh, feather-light."

Harry obeyed, biting his bottom lip, trying with all his might to keep his expression neutral. His cock was throbbing from the proximity of his fingers, from the knowledge that he would not be able to touch it until Voldemort gave him permission. He felt a little weak in the knees all of a sudden, and he wondered if he was going to be able to stay standing through this entire ordeal.

"You're doing very well, Harry," Voldemort murmured darkly, a smirk touching his lips. "You may lean against the door if you wish."

And Harry did, aware of the picture that he must make, flushed and panting and naked and leaning against the wall like this. He managed to suppress another shudder with great difficulty, and he let his eyes flutter closed as his fingers continued to dance along the skin so close to his swollen member, but never brushing against it. Obedient. Self-control. Deep breaths.

"I want you to touch yourself for me now, Harry, but very slowly," Voldemort instructed, his voice hushed and intent. "Do you think you can do that?"

Deep breaths.

Harry hummed in assent - it certainly wasn't a groan, he told himself - and let his fingers curl lightly around his erection. His body trembled with relief, but his muscles were still so taut with anticipation, with the mad desire to go and throw himself at the sadistic, horrible, incredible creature watching him on the bed, dangling his pleasure in front of him like a puppet-master. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, willed his hand to go slowly as it travelled teasingly up and down his erection.

"Do you know how long I've wanted to watch you do this?"

A rhetorical question, but Harry shook his head jerkily all the same, if only to release some of the tension stretching across his body.

"I've watched you before, of course, from your own eyes. Night after night, I watched you touch yourself this way, watched the jumbled images tumbling through your muddled adolescent mind." Harry remembered lying in his godfather's bed, and the face of Tom Riddle mixed with Voldemort's voice, an addictive drug, taunting him as he soaked up Harry's pleasure from a distance.

"I would tell myself that it was the connection between our minds that left me with such arousal in my own body, but it was a lie." There was a creak on the bed, and Harry's eyes flew open in time to see Voldemort rise to his feet, his eyes on fire against his pale skin. "I wanted you, so badly, even then."

Harry couldn't stop the noise that fell from his lips, a mix between a groan and a cry, and his fingers tightened against his erection spontaneously. He closed his eyes at the rush of pleasure, opened them again. Voldemort was right in front of him, regarding him transfixedly.

"Slowly," the man murmured, but his eyes had never left Harry's face. Harry tried to stutter out an apology, but the words wouldn't come. His thighs were quivering violently, and his lips would only part and close uselessly.

"Captivating," Voldemort said, brushing a finger against Harry's bottom lip. "Perfect," he added, sliding his fingers up Harry's face, tracing his eyelids.

"_Mine."_

The man lowered poisonous lips to Harry's mouth, and Harry let himself give in to his fall.


	22. IV:3

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

A/N: Hope y'all had a great Thanksgiving :) You might have noticed that I changed the genre from Adventure to Angst; that's cause I was reading over the story again and I realized that it has a hell of a lot more angst than adventure, so I figured that it would be appropriate to warn my readers a little better, haha.

This chapter is a little lengthy and on the plotty side, just to warn you. And the story's about to pick up a lot, in case anyone's getting bored, so please hang in there. And your reviews make me SO HAPPY. Thank you so much to everyone who has been leaving comments. I really, really appreciate them. Happy reading! :)

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><p>3.<p>

And so Harry fell.

He fell again and again, day after day, a vicious cycle. Falling, headfirst and eyes closed into the warm, bittersweet darkness that was Lord Voldemort, and Harry could never quite find his feet on the ground before it began all over again.

Each morning, waking alone, Harry would steel himself to believe that it would be different today, that he wouldn't enjoy it as much, that he would concentrate and renew his plans for escape. And every evening he would fall again, drunk on the poisonous wine that was the Dark Lord's mouth and fingers. By the time that they fell into sleep together, lying side-by-side on the bed - but never touching, not after Harry's teasing in the forest that day - Harry would convince himself that it might be alright, that there was possibly even hope for redemption in the soul that they shared.

But then Harry would awaken alone and cold, with just enough time to remember his place in the world, and the cycle would begin anew.

Harry was starting to improve in his lessons, which Voldemort insisted they carry out for at least an hour every day, no exceptions. Voldemort very rarely left the cottage - it seemed as though he were loathe to ever let Harry leave his sight - apart from two hours every evening, when he would go to Malfoy Manor to dine with his followers. But when he was forced to take leave from the cottage during the day, he left Harry with a pile of books to study in his absence, the material of which he would test Harry in a rather unorthodox manner when he returned.

"I can't think while you're doing that," the boy would protest a little breathlessly as Voldemort's fingers chased themselves across Harry's abdomen, hips, thighs.

"You must think clearly under extenuating circumstances, Harry," would be Voldemort's standard response, at times murmured against the skin of his neck, hissed into his ear in Parseltongue, or whispered inside of his own thoughts. The Dark Lord's fingers would then invariably slide under Harry's waistband, and he would press his lips to the boy's ear, murmuring, "Now tell me, Harry - what is the appropriate counter-curse for body-binding spells?"

Harry's Occlumency skills were slowly improving as well, largely due to the fact that he was learning from the most accomplished Legilimens alive. Harry was still unable to keep the Dark Lord from entering his mind through Legilimancy, but he had at least learned how to bury more humiliating memories in the back of his head. This was applicable to their deeper, Horcrux-induced mind connection as well: Harry found that he could hide certain thoughts completely out of Voldemort's reach, and if the Dark Lord was unaware that they were there, it was far less likely that Voldemort would stumble upon them during his journey through Harry's mind, especially when they were clumsily veiled behind a memory of his friends' laughter.

They dappled in other areas of magic in addition to Occlumency, including some dueling spells and curses. Harry had always been good with Defense Against the Dark Arts, and many of the offensive exercises that they practiced came quite naturally to him. Voldemort's compliments were few and far in between, but he did not seem to be disappointed with Harry's progress, for which the boy was grateful. Harry had never been a stellar student at Hogwarts, but he found himself unwilling to dash Voldemort's expectations of him - not because he was afraid, but simply because Voldemort seemed to believe that Harry could and would advance spectacularly with some proper training.

"What are they even teaching the children in that castle these days?" Voldemort said one afternoon after his reference to Regimus Tarhallow, the apparent inventor of a jinx that explodes acid at its target, was met only with Harry's blank stare. "If your own proficiency is anything to go by, the quality of education at Hogwarts has dramatically decreased since I attended."

"It's your own fault, really," Harry shot back, scratching at the back of his neck and feeling very embarrassed. They had been practicing in the sitting room as usual, and there was a wooden dummy conjured by the fireplace to act as the target of Harry's clumsy spells (Harry had adamantly refused Voldemort's offer to find a Muggle to use for practice). "We've had a different Defense teacher every single year, if you'll recall."

A smirk lit Voldemort's face briefly, and the man folded his arms nonchalantly across his chest. "Ah, yes, I am quite familiar with that particular predicament. Shame."

"So you can hardly blame me!" Harry said, feeling rather defensive.

"Ah, on the contrary, I doubt that the size of the Hogwarts library has diminished in size since I've graduated," Voldemort retorted, giving Harry a condescending look. "I myself was self-taught in most of our academic subjects long before we covered the material in class."

And then he went on to explain precisely who Regimus Tarhallow was and the reasons why Harry should have already known about his accomplishments in acidic spellcasting.

The Dark Lord was almost intimidating in his knowledge, throwing about facts, numbers, and dates as casually as he might a weather prediction. He was the smartest man that Harry had ever met, even smarter than Hermione. Harry could understand for the first time why so many had flocked to follow the antisocial, aloof young man that would become Lord Voldemort. He was a terrific teacher, even all these years later; he always seemed to know the answer to Harry's questions, and if Harry didn't quite understand what he was talking about on the first go, Voldemort would always have another way to explain it until Harry grasped the concept in question.

But Harry often found his gaze straying longingly to the chest in the corner of the room, thinking of the boy trapped inside that had spent his days at Hogwarts reading and obsessively collecting information instead of smiling and making friends with his peers. He wondered, not for the first time, if things might have been different, had someone only reached out to Tom Riddle while he was still in Hogwarts.

* * *

><p>"A chess board," Harry said one morning, fingers absentmindedly twirling his wand, magic surging through his thirsty fingertips at the initial contact. He was sitting on the couch, watching Voldemort as the man leafed through a book on Magical Theory, conjuring multiple mannequins for today's lesson.<p>

The Dark Lord glanced up curiously. There was no cruelty in his ruby eyes today. He seemed to be more and more relaxed, almost content, during these early afternoon lessons, despite the fact that Harry still had not consented to join the Dark cause.

"It's hardly conducive to your training, Harry, if I'm going to be forced to read your mind to make sense of your nonsensical outbursts," Voldemort said, but his tone was lacking the harshness of his words.

"For Ron and Hermione," Harry clarified, trying not to sound too hopeful. "And some books as well. They just sit up there in that room all day."

Voldemort threw Harry an amused glance from his text. "Demanding, aren't we? If I recall correctly, it was hardly a week ago that you were begging me not to kill them."

Harry blinked. Had it really only been a week? "Well, I've been awfully cooperative, haven't I?" Harry tried for a teasing smile. "Don't I deserve a reward?"

The man shut the book softly, turned thoughtful red eyes in Harry's direction, and his lips thinned in that way they did whenever he was irritated. Harry tried not to smile at the twitch of the man's mouth, the subtle furrowing of his brow; he had been collecting the Dark Lord's facial expressions like small treasures, and Harry was exceptionally pleased whenever he could read the carefully controlled changes in Voldemort's features.

"They do not trust your judgment," Voldemort said after a moment, barely concealed anger swirling with the irritation in his eyes. "They resent you for being compliant. They whisper to one another whenever you look the other way. Why do you insist on caring for their comfort?"

A twinge of hurt, much like ripping open a new scab, stabbed briefly within Harry's chest. "They're my friends."

Voldemort actually laughed at this, a cold, disparaging sound. "_Friends_," he sneered. "They only cause you discomfort and irritation. Why do you endure such insufferable behavior from those that claim to follow you?"

"A chess board," Harry repeated through clenched teeth. "And some books. They've been really good to me. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Foolish boy." Voldemort turned his attention back to his book and said no more. He was significantly more irritated after this exchange, and Harry began to wonder if Voldemort was going to take his request into consideration at all. The Dark Lord did not say another word about it for the entirety of the lesson, and Harry gave up thinking about it by the time that they had finished.

But when Voldemort left the cottage as he usually did later that afternoon, Harry went upstairs to get his friends for dinner and found them sitting at opposite ends of a chess board, soaked in sunlight from a brand new window, laughing and looking happier than Harry had seen them in many months.

"We just practiced some basic Stunning today," Harry said as Hermione stirred a pot of boiling potatoes on the stove a few minutes later. She had been the one to cook most of their dinners, as Harry had very little experience cooking anything more than toasted bread and Ron was accustomed to his mother making dinner for his family. Voldemort never inquired as to what the trio did with these two hours every evening when he was out of the house, but somehow, ingredients, meats, and breads seemed to be replenished in the pantry every evening whenever Harry and Hermione went to prepare supper.

"Stunning?" said Ron, who was sitting at the wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. The red-headed boy was chasing a knight from the chess set across the surface of the table with a fork; he had been very reluctant to leave his new source of entertainment, and had slipped a small knight into his pocket when they had gone downstairs. "Blimey, Harry, does he think you're going to fight for him or something?"

"Well, yes," Harry said. "He wants me to join him."

Ron scowled. "He's still on about that, is he?" He gave the knight a particularly hard prod with the fork; the miniature soldier drew its stone sword and brandished it at him angrily. Ron furrowed his brow at the little thing and batted the sword away with his utensil.

"Of course he is," Hermione said, exasperated. Although she was finally on speaking terms with Ron again, she did not seem to have any reservations about being short with him. "He can't kill Harry now, so this is the next easiest way to win the war - get Harry to publicly announce that he's on Voldemort's side."

Ron visibly flinched at the name. Harry found it a little amusing that they slept under the same roof and Ron still couldn't bear to hear the word 'Voldemort.' "Well, he really is mental, then. There's no way Harry would ever be on You-Know-Who's side. Right, Harry?"

"Of course not, don't be dense," Harry said, perhaps a little too quickly, because Hermione gave him a strange look.

"It's almost like he's trying to be _nice _to you or something," Ron went on with a grimace, oblivious to the tension that was suddenly taut in the air. "It's creepy, really."

Harry occupied himself with checking the green beans, hoping desperately they would start talking about something else. But an awkward silence fell between them, and when Harry looked up from the vegetables, he saw that, although Ron was swearing at the miniature knight on the tabletop, which had apparently sliced his finger with its sword, Hermione was still staring at Harry very expectantly. She obviously wanted him to respond.

"He is nice to me, I suppose. Too nice." Harry averted his eyes to the floor. "I guess I don't really understand why."

Ron looked up and blinked between the two of them, momentarily distracted from his battle with the chess piece. He seemed confused as to why they were still talking about this.

"He's very manipulative," Hermione said softly in response, reaching out and touching Harry's wrist. The brush of her fingers drew his eyes to her face, and he wished that it hadn't, because there was so much trust, so much concern written there that Harry once again felt that horrible urge to just spill everything to them. "He's only kind because he's trying to use you, Harry."

"I know, but it's just …" Harry faltered, looked away again.

(_silver eyes and soft kisses and the secret smile that sneaked up on Voldemort's lips sometimes when his eyes gleamed grey in the snowlight_)

"It's stupid. Nevermind."

"Wait, what?" Ron exclaimed suddenly, looking positively scandalized. "Harry, he's _evil_! He killed your parents. You can't think he's actually being nice on purpose, can you?"

Well, there was no getting away from this now, was there? Harry sighed and leaned back against the counter, looking up at the ceiling, shades of beige in the fading sunlight. "I guess I just wonder sometimes if things could have turned out differently." The words sounded stupid, even coming from his mouth, but Harry couldn't stop them now. "No one was ever nice to him before. He grew up in an orphanage, and he never made friends at Hogwarts." He took a deep breath, looked down at the floor with hope fluttering nervously in his stomach. "Dumbledore said that he's never even known love."

There were a few moments of stunned silence. Harry didn't dare look up to see the expressions on their faces.

And then, not entirely to Harry's surprise, Ron burst out laughing.

"_Love_?" Ron repeated, clutching his sides and howling with laughter.

"Ha, I know," Harry said, not quite making it all the way to a smile and hating the unexpected stab of pain in his gut, the way his cheeks were burning treacherously. Ron, however, didn't seem to notice.

"Right, well all we need is a fair young maiden to throw herself at old snake-face and the world will be saved. And tomorrow Umbridge is going to sprout angel wings and hand out Chocolate Frogs and flowers to all the little children. Good one, Harry." Ron threw Harry a good-natured, goofy grin before he turned back to sparring with his chess piece, which had almost galloped off the table while Ron had been looking the other way.

Feeling dejected, Harry forced a laugh and turned back to the green beans. Perhaps this whole thing was a stupid, useless endeavor after all.

"Yeah, I know," he said, trying for a smile and stirring the vegetables in the pot with a wooden spoon. "Like that would ever happen."

Harry did not press the topic, and the conversation quickly turned to a recounting of Ron's finishing move in his chess game with Hermione this afternoon. They did not bring it up the subject of Voldemort again all through dinner.

Harry was too busy picking at his fingernails to notice, but Hermione stared at him strangely for the rest of the night.

* * *

><p>"<em>Imperio<em>."

Mist seeped out from the tip of his wand, floating to encompass the small rabbit that sat in the middle of the living room floor. The animal, which had been nibbling at its paws, straightened up very suddenly. Its facial features relaxed, and Harry could actually feel the rabbit's mind melting slowly underneath the push of his magic.

"Well done, Harry," Voldemort said from close behind him, pleased, and the boy hid his smile by forcing his concentration back to the rabbit. "Focus on making it move, bending it to your will."

Harry swallowed, uncomfortable with that particular turn of phrase, but his desire to draw more praise from Voldemort's lips turned his attention back to the animal sitting unnaturally still on the floor. Its grey fur looked almost white in the morning light spilling through the window, and its black, beady eyes were oddly vacant, staring directly ahead.

_Move_, Harry thought. _Jump up and down for me_.

Like a puppet jerked by invisible strings, the rabbit jumped up, once, and landed on its paws again.

"Yes." Voldemort hummed approvingly, eyes locked on Harry as the boy performed his first Unforgivable Curse. "You are catching on quickly."

Harry did not see the approval flashing across Voldemort's eyes; he was too busy pressing against the rabbit's thoughts, concentrating on injecting his own. _Jump. Run. _Obediently, the bunny hopped across the floor, jumped up on the table, stood on its hind legs. Harry felt a burst of triumph at every successful command that he gave the small animal. Who knew that this would be so addicting?

"What now?" Harry asked, surprised by how eager he was. There was something strangely gratifying about moving another creature with only his thoughts. It was hard for him to remind himself that this was Dark magic.

"If you had simply acquiesced to practicing on a Muggle," Voldemort drawled from behind him, his casual tone failing to disguise his irritation, "we might have been able to advance to more complex commands, such as speech and facial expressions."

Harry scowled, trying not to lose his focus. "Yes, well - "

But he was cut off rather abruptly by loud hissing, hungry and rude. It came from the hallway behind him and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Swearing, Harry spun around just in time to dodge the giant snake nearly flying through the doorway, her fangs glimmering with venom and her gazed fixed unblinkingly on the animal crouched stock-still on the table. As soon as Harry's concentration broke, the rabbit's eyes nearly bulged out of its tiny head, and it sprinted off the table in terror, scuttling underneath the couch.

"_Nagini!" _Voldemort hissed furiously, swiping an outstretched hand toward the snake. Nagini was immediately swept back across the sitting room before she could reach the sofa, suspended midair.

"I'd be glad to practice a few Dark curses on her," Harry offered mildly. Voldemort did not grace this with a response.

"_But master,_" Nagini whined in Parseltongue, squirming and flailing about indignantly, "_I am so _hungry."

"_You will feed after the lesson is over, my dear_," Voldemort hissed in reply. "_Upstairs with you, now_."

The snake hissed an irritated sigh and stopped squirming. As she slithered out of the room, she narrowed her eyes in Harry's direction and hissed, "_You're next, man-child_."

Harry had to fight to resist the urge to stick his tongue out at her.

"I don't like her," Harry said when she had left the room. "You couldn't have picked something nicer to carry your soul?"

"I'm afraid that 'nice' wasn't exactly my prerogative during my quest to choose Horcruxes," Voldemort said, but Harry could hear him smiling. "The lesson, now, Harry."

The boy pointed his wand back at the rabbit, which was poking a twitching nose cautiously from underneath the couch. "Okay, now what?"

"Well, that was quite an impressive attempt at the Imperius." Harry looked over his shoulder to see Voldemort appraising him with an unreadable glint in his eye. Harry didn't like that he could no longer understand the emotion there. "But you will need a suitable target on which to practice. Rabbits can only provide so much training."

Harry's brief happiness at having performed the spell correctly evaporated immediately at what Voldemort was suggesting. "I think I'll be fine, thanks," he said coolly, lowering his wand from the rabbit, which had disappeared back under the sofa.

"The day is still young, Harry," Voldemort said, a challenge in his voice. "I could still fetch you a Muggle to play with."

_Play with?_

Harry shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, but it was of no use. An awful memory was burning bright in his mind, Voldemort's red eyes two solid flames behind it: four bodies hanging limp in the night sky like large, creepy puppets, thrashing about and screaming as a group of Death Eaters below laughed and laughed.

Anger, brittle and unavoidable, surged up within him, and Harry turned around to face the Dark Lord. "For the last time, I'm not practicing these spells on Muggles!"

The words came out a little fiercer than he had meant them to, but the face of that little Muggle girl, frozen in fear as the Death Eaters tossed her about like a rag doll, would not leave his mind. He felt his fingers clench unconsciously around his wand, glad that, for once, he was not completely defenseless - even if he had utterly no chance at besting Voldemort in a duel.

"Settle down, little lion." There was something threatening beneath those words, despite the calm and collected way that Voldemort was carrying himself. "Your resistance to this idea disturbs me." Still calm. _Too calm_. Harry tried to remind himself that this person could injure him grievously before he opened his mouth to speak again.

"It's vile," Harry said finally, trying hard to temper the anger flaring in his gut. "Everything about your cause_. _It's abominable. They're innocent people. They haven't done anything to you."

Voldemort's upper lip curled, and the air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees in temperature. "Their very existence is a blemish to wizarding kind!" His voice was still measured, controlled, but no longer masked by that deceptive calm; there was a storm roiling beneath those words.

"They're just people, like everyone else," Harry shot back, heart pounding. "People with lives, and families, and feelings - "

"All of which I disdain." Voldemort looked positively terrifying, looming tall and angry and dangerous, but Harry stood his ground, refused to be intimidated. "Over-emotional, uneducated, barbaric, weak - and these contemptuous qualities have infected pure wizard bloodlines when our kind dares to _breed _with them - "

"That comes from being human, not from being Muggle!" Harry cried in frustration. "I know plenty of wizards that are _barbaric_- "

"And your fat, violent cousin?" Voldemort spat. "What of him? Might you practice some Dark magic on his worthless hide?"

There was a distinct _pressing _on his mind, and then memories of a young Dudley, screaming and throwing fits over broken toys, holding Harry's head in the toilet bowl, punching him hard on the nose - volumes upon volumes of violent, painful memories from his childhood spilled across Harry's vision, surrounding him, almost as though he were living through them all over again. Anger and hurt lit a fire in Harry's chest, and the boy clutched at his forehead, which was searing with the pain of Dudley's fists, of Voldemort's fury.

And then, an older Dudley, standing in the hallway at Number 4, Privet Drive, looking at Harry as though he'd never seen his cousin before. "_I don't think you're a waste of space_," Dudley had said, and then he had walked up to Harry and shaken his hand.

"I'll join you," Harry blurted out suddenly, desperately, before he could think about what he was saying. The visions vanished abruptly, as did the pain in his scar, and all that was left was Voldemort, standing shocked and confused in front of him. "Stop hunting Muggles, treat them as equals, and I'll join you."

Voldemort looked completely dumbfounded for a moment. A heartbeat passed, then two.

"No," the Dark Lord said flatly, and turned around to walk into the hallway.

_Good one, Harry_, said a bitter voice in his head, angry tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. _Treat Muggles as equals? Do you even realize who you're talking to_?

Blinking rapidly, the boy took at step after the Dark Lord, feeling very small and hurt.

"How can you be so kind to me and then kill and torture people without a second thought?" Harry was nearly yelling now, and he saw Voldemort's back tense, felt his scar sting with pain. "You might have killed me, too, and it would have been no one's fault but your own! I would be dead, Tom, and we would have never known - known about - "

"Known what, Potter?" Voldemort jeered when Harry faltered, turning around with a sneer, and the amusement in the Dark Lord's eyes was worse to look upon than any anger that Harry had ever seen there. "Known about your precious _love_? About how it will save all your filthy Muggle friends and conquer the great Lord Voldemort? Dumbledore's last weapon, right till the end, aren't you? I will never be defeated, not by _love, _and certainly not by a lovesick little boy. I see what you are trying to do, Harry Potter, and I will not let it happen."

Harry's mind was racing, dread pooling in his stomach. "What? No, I - "

Voldemort's hand slashed through the air, and Harry was cut off by an invisible slap, hard and stinging across his cheek. The boy touched his face with cool fingers, startled and hurt.

"Do not lie to me, Harry," Voldemort snarled, his hand still raised, and Harry could hardly recognize the look on his face, the person behind those flaming eyes. "This was your plan all along, wasn't it? You blindsided me, but did you think you could maintain this facade forever? There was one flaw in Dumbledore's foolish plan, you stupid child -_ Lord Voldemort cannot love_."

Harry's heart was in his throat, making it hard to breathe, and the blood was frozen in his body, cold and horrible. Something had changed in the air; something had changed between them. Voldemort took three swift steps forward until he was barely an inch away from Harry, his pale face contorted with a calm fury.

"Allow me to make myself perfectly clear, Harry: I would have killed you that night, and I would have been glad to do it." His eyes flashed cruelly, a scarlet curtain of fire coming between them. "You are nothing but my Horcrux to me."

* * *

><p>The door was very plain, just like every other in the house. Wooden, a brass doorknob, smooth. The doorjambs were a little rusty from disuse. When that infuriating Muggle had expired, the condition of the rest of the house had gone with him, although it was nothing that Voldemort had been unable to fix with some magic. Although he had apparently missed that splintery piece peeling off in the top left corner, just there.<p>

It was irritating.

Everything about this was irritating.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes at that door. He had been staring at it for at least ten minutes, had memorized every detail, and it still hadn't opened. There were soft sniffles coming from the other side of it, from their bedroom. _His _bedroom.

_Revolting_. Voldemort curled his upper lip at the door, as though it were the source of his current vexation. In a way, it was - Voldemort had never been forced to stand and stare at a closed door, listening to a little boy crying.

But it had been nearly three hours and the child still hadn't come out of the blasted room! What else was he supposed to do? He could not communicate with the boy - he had already tried to infiltrate Harry's thoughts to chastise him for his ridiculous behavior, but the pain and sadness he had found there was suffocating, and the Dark Lord absolutely refused to be tainted by such sentiment. He had paced the first floor of the house at least a dozen times, fed the damn rabbit to his snake, transfigured three more when the first did not satisfy her hunger, even went to Malfoy Manor to check in with Lucius and _Crucio_a few restless Death Eaters - but every time he returned here, Harry had still not emerged from the bedroom. Did he plan to simply hole himself up in there forever?

_He most certainly will not_, Voldemort thought angrily. The Dark Lord of the wizarding world would not be thrown out of his own bedroom.

Making up his mind, Voldemort closed the distance between himself and the door and reached out to open it.

And then he recoiled in shock. The doorknob wouldn't budge. It took him a few moments to process this information. The doorknob wouldn't budge. Harry had locked the door. His own bedroom door, and the impertinent brat had locked it against its owner, against Voldemort himself! Frustration and rage welled up inside of the Dark Lord. No amount of sniveling gave the child the right to lock him out of his own bedroom!

"Harry," Voldemort said, and he cursed his voice for how gentle it dared to carry that name. The man cleared his throat and tried again. "Harry!" That was better, more demanding. "Open this door at once."

The sniffling paused. Voldemort could practically feel the boy holding his breath on the other side of the door, making the decision.

"No," came the response, very small. "No, please just, just let me be for a while."

Voldemort blinked. _No? _People did not deny him. Little sniveling boys did not deny him. The man tried to turn the doorknob again, but it still did not move.

"_Let me eat him, master_," Nagini suggested from the floor, coiling around his ankles. "_He is disrespectful and stupid. The stupid ones are always the juiciest_."

Voldemort's lips thinned. "_He is mine, Nagini_," he reminded her gently, nudging her with his foot. "_And he is not for eating_." _Not for anyone but me, that is._But that thought led down roads that were far too pleasant and tempting to traverse at the moment, roads that, as it was, had already led him directly to this door. Which was still closed.

Voldemort was beginning to regret letting the boy run upstairs as quickly as he had. Not that Voldemort ever regretted anything, especially not what he had said before the child had fled from him with tears in his eyes. It had made perfect sense at the moment, after all. Harry Potter was just a reincarnation of Dumbledore, haunting him from the grave, throwing that stupid word around like a sword. Perfect sense, the entire thing - Harry had even gone so far as to make himself desirable to the Dark Lord to cloud his reasoning. It was all a fraud to get Voldemort to give up his cause, throw in the towel, and promote the ideals that Albus Dumbledore had foolishly died for.

And yet … _You are nothing but my Horcrux to me_. Perhaps that had been a little harsh. It was obviously not true, although Voldemort was loathe to admit it. Harry had grown to be much more than a Horcrux. It was sickening, really, a weakness, but one that Voldemort had long ago decided he could indulge. It was not dangerous to be weak for your own soul, was it?

_Except for when your soul can throw a child's tantrums_. Voldemort sighed, rubbed his temples. Nagini began to slither back down the stairs, bored, and Voldemort was reminded once again of how ridiculous this was. It didn't matter how harsh he had been - he was Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the most powerful wizard in the world! He had earned the right to be harsh to whomever he wanted!

A wordless spell, and the doorknob _clicked _as it unlocked.

And the door still did not budge.

Rage flared inside of him. For a moment, he considered blasting the door right off of its hinges, along with anything else that might be blocking it. That would teach the boy to lock a door against Lord Voldemort!

"Harry?"

The voice, unexpected and tentative, came from his right, followed by a frightened squeak and a hastily slammed door. Voldemort whirled around to be faced with yet another closed door, this one hiding the boy's two insufferable companions.

_His friends_. Struck with sudden inspiration, Voldemort quickly made his way to the other door and threw it wide open, satisfied when the doorknob did not give him any trouble this time.

The two children were cowering in the corner of the room, their eyes wide and faces pale. The Dark Lord felt a familiar twinge of satisfaction at this response - there was something about people cowering at the sight of your face that would never tire him - before folding his arms and giving each of them a long glare for good measure.

"I - I'm so sorry, sir," the Mudblood girl began to stammer - _sir_? - from where she stood in front of the cowardly redhead. "I just - you're usually g-gone at this time in the day, and we always eat dinner, and I thought that Harry was - "

"Silence!" Voldemort hissed, cutting her off. She flinched at the sound of his voice, falling silent immediately. "You speak when you are spoken to, stupid girl."

The Mudblood nodded in response, lips pressed tightly together and eyes very wide. When it was clear that they were both going to be quiet, Voldemort took a step into their room, sparing a venomous glance for that damn chess board before letting his gaze settle on the children.

"Your _friend_," Voldemort began, making sure to show his disdain for the word in his pronunciation, "has locked himself in my bedroom and refuses to come out."

The children exchanged horrified looks. Could it be that this was not an isolated incident? They looked even more frightened by this prospect than they had been by Lord Voldemort bursting unannounced into their bedroom, and this aggravated him considerably; the Dark Lord's presence should frighten these stupid children more than Harry Potter's silly temper tantrums! Voldemort made a mental note that this locking-himself-in-rooms business of Harry's was behavior that sorely needed to be rectified at a later date before he spoke again.

"I command you to use your … _friendship_, or whatever it is that he values in your pathetic existences, to extract him from the room immediately."

There. Problem solved. No doors blasted in, Harry's little friends would talk some sense into his thick skull, and then the boy would come and apologize to him at once for his impertinence.

From the looks on the children's faces, however, you'd think that he had just asked a wanted criminal to walk into the Ministry of Magic in the middle of working hours.

"Er …" This time it was the red-head that spoke, peeking his head out from behind his Muggleborn girlfriend. He looked like a rather stupid boy; his face was very pale, and there was a smudge of dirt on the side of his nose. This was really the company that Harry kept? "It's … it's really not that simple. Sir."

"My lord," Voldemort corrected through a clenched jaw. "I am your lord, not your professor."

"My … my lord," the Weasley boy amended, voice trembling. "Do you think you could tell us … what happened before he … er … locked himself in?"

Voldemort blinked. Well, he hadn't been expecting that. "We had some words," he replied, a little too stiffly, glowering at the red-head. "How is this of any consequence?"

The Weasley seemed to have lost his temporary burst of courage, but the Mudblood girl stepped forward in his stead. She had a strangely perceptive look in her eye; Voldemort didn't like it one bit.

"Well, my lord," she said carefully, slowly, and although Voldemort could still taste her fear, he sensed that she had somehow gained control of the situation. He wasn't sure if he admired or resented her for it. "Did you perhaps try to talk to him about it?"

"I don't see what there is to talk about!" Voldemort snapped in reply. "I should like for you to talk to him! I do not wish to be involved in this nonsense any longer!"

To his chagrin, the girl did not seem to be intimidated by his anger, but rather responded to him with infuriating patience. He could see how she got along so well with Harry; there was certainly a lot to be patient with when it came to that boy. "But, my lord, he's not upset with us," she pointed out gently. "He's upset with _you_. You're the only person that's going to be able to set things right."

The red-head was gaping at her with shock. Voldemort ignored him.

"And how exactly doyou suggest I go about that?" Ridiculous! He had never needed to 'set things right' with people before. Cursed them, killed them, bent their will to his way, perhaps, but never anything that could be described as 'setting things right.'

"You could always try apologizing," the girl suggested gently.

"Apologizing?" Voldemort spat the word out like a bitter food, rising up to his full imposing height. "Do you mean to imply that I am in the wrong?"

The red-head whimpered, but the foolish girl did not back down. "I'm only saying that when people argue, they say things that they might not always mean." She had a twinkle in her eye that reminded him infuriatingly of Albus Dumbledore. It made him want to hex her, but he had a feeling that torturing Harry's friends would not be a good step toward this new lofty goal of 'setting things right.'

"And how am I to speak with him when he won't even open the door?" Voldemort finally said, seething with anger.

"He'll open it," the girl responded knowingly. "Just try. My lord," she added hurriedly before she lowered her eyes, losing her gall.

Voldemort gave them both one last resentful scowl before he swept from the room, closing the door loudly behind him.

Ron let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Bloody hell. Harry must be mental." He shook his head with disbelief and sat down on the edge of the bed. "If Harry's really gone and locked himself up in You-Know-Who's room, I can't even say which one of them I'm more scared for."

Hermione took a deep shuddering breath, passed a hand over her face, and sat down next to him. "Maybe we're the ones that need to be scared," she responded softly, her gaze straying to the window, where there were snow-cloaked trees and bluebirds and a world she might forever see only through a layer of glass.

"Don't be silly, Hermione," Ron said, sitting down next to her and tentatively touching her shoulder. To his relief, she did not pull away. "Harry knows what he's doing."

"I sure hope so," she murmured, and nuzzled her head against his shoulder with closed eyes.

* * *

><p><em>Stupid, stupid, stupid<em>.

Harry pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, which were still leaking traitorous tears. His spectacles lay on the pillow, where he had thrown them carelessly as soon as he had finished pushing the dresser in front of the door, and he had been curled up beside them on the bed ever since.

He could understand for the first time why someone would want to block out their emotions. The hurt that he felt at that moment was beyond anything he'd ever experienced. How could anyone willingly subject themselves to such pain? Why did people even fall in love in the first place, if this was just how it was going to feel in the end?

_Well, not everyone goes and gets smitten with a Dark Lord, do they?_

He took a deep breath, leaned against the headboard, and looked around the room with blurry eyes. He'd better get used to it now: this was his life. He was stuck here with a mass murderer and the heavy guilt of his captured friends.

Faces had been whirling through his mind, had been ever since he had thrown himself onto the bed: Ginny and Neville and Remus and Tonks and all of the Muggleborn students at Hogwarts. For a brief, wild moment, he had thought that he could save them, all of them. Yes, he had been captured and detained in some godforsaken forest in the middle of France, but the war was not lost. He had thought that, for a few wonderful, brilliant seconds, everything was going to be alright.

But Voldemort was not Tom. Voldemort was not even capable of remembering Tom. Voldemort was nothing but a monster.

"Harry." The Dark Lord's voice was surprisingly tender, muffled by the door and dresser between them. Harry closed his eyes and wiped at them again, didn't respond.

"Harry!" Harsher now. That was more like it. "Open this door at once."

Harry bit his lip, hesitating. Why hadn't Voldemort just opened it himself? Harry might have pushed the dresser in front of the door for the illusion of safety, but he was not stupid enough to think that Voldemort could not enter the room if he truly wanted to.

Perhaps he was giving Harry a choice.

"No," the boy said immediately, hating how choked his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and continued. "No, please, just, just let me be for a while."

Silence followed his request, and Harry could practically feel Voldemort seething outside in the hall. Harry closed his eyes, waiting for the telltale _click _that meant Voldemort was unlocking the door with magic.

And there it was. The boy stiffened on the bed and shut his blind eyes, bracing himself for the pieces of dresser that were about to come flying his way.

But there was nothing. Just silence. No dresser, no spell, nothing. Harry frowned in confusion, wiped at his eyes again. What was Voldemort waiting for?

Minutes passed before it became clear to Harry that Voldemort was not going to come inside. Maybe the man was actually respecting his wishes. But that didn't explain his attempt to unlock the door. What was going on?

And then he heard muffled voices from the room adjacent to the bedroom, specifically Voldemort's unmistakable tenor, and his heart nearly stopped beating.

Voldemort had gone to confront his friends.

Harry's heart remembered how to pound again, and started to do so at twice the normal rate as he scrambled off the bed and flew toward the door. Biting his lip, he leaned his back against the dresser and pushed with all his might in the other direction. It groaned out of the way, slowly, leaving the door clear.

Breathing hard at this point from exertion – Harry had always been rather scrawny, and he hadn't played any Quidditch for at least a year – the boy steeled himself for a fight, wishing he hadn't tossed his wand aside when he had run up the stairs.

Swallowing, Harry flung the door open wide – and practically barreled into the blurry, dark shape that was Voldemort.

The boy blinked up at him in surprise. He couldn't see the expression on the man's face, but he felt the bewilderment in Voldemort's mind, slipping between his own thoughts.

"Ron and Hermione," Harry said hoarsely, suddenly remembering himself. "What did you do to them?"

Irritation, now. Voldemort pushed past Harry, striding into the bedroom. "How many times must you question our agreement? They will not come to any harm."

Warm relief spread through Harry's chest. "Oh." Awkwardly, the boy closed the door behind him, blinking and blind. Voldemort was standing in on the other side of the room with his back to Harry. The boy opened his mouth and then closed it, unsure of what to say.

_You are nothing but my Horcrux to me_.

Pain, sharp and fresh, tore at his chest from the memory, and Harry found himself having to blink back tears again now that he was confronted with the person who had spoken those words. Feeling naked without his eyesight, boy moved toward the bed and snatched his glasses. The room came back into focus just in time for Voldemort to turn around, his expression still maddeningly unreadable.

"Did Dumbledore put you up to this?"

Harry frowned, confused, still hurting. "Er … no." He tried to think of what Dumbledore would say if he'd been alive to see Harry courting his enemy. He couldn't imagine that it would be approving. "No, just me. Wouldn't you have been able to tell?"

There was silence as Voldemort contemplated this. "Yes," Voldemort finally conceded, "I suppose I would have."

More silence. Harry glanced toward the floor, hurt flooding back in to take up the space that their silence left.

It was a few long moments before Voldemort spoke again.

"I do not apologize." Voldemort wasn't looking directly at him, staring toward the door with narrowed eyes. _No shit_. Harry waited Voldemort to continue, but no explanation followed this statement. Sudden anger clenched in Harry's gut. He just wanted to be left alone to wallow in the tragedy that was his fate; did Voldemort really need to come rub this in his face?

"If you just came in here to scold me some more, I think I've learned my lesson," Harry said bitterly, glaring at his feet.

He heard a rustle of movement, and then fingers were skimming across his jaw, tilting his head upward. The glint in Voldemort's eye was still unreadable, his touch gentle.

"I cannot _… love_ you." Voldemort's voice was quiet and pained, but his eyes never left Harry's own. "And I will never abandon my cause. But I shouldn't have spoken so callously. It was … cruel of me." Harry had never seen him look so uncomfortable before. "I spoke out of anger. You have become dear to me, Harry. I did not mean to hurt you."

_Then what exactly were you trying to do?_ But there was hope, dangerous and real, quivering in his chest.

"Why?" Harry said, jaw clenching. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I did not mean what I said," Voldemort responded tensely, his touch becoming a caress as he moved his hand across Harry's cheek. He sighed, indecision flashing in his eyes, before he spoke again. "I did not choose you as my Horcrux, Harry. But, had I a choice in the matter, I wouldn't have wanted it to be anyone else."

It wasn't an apology, not a real one, anyway, but the sincerity in his voice was touching. Harry found his anger melting, his resistance giving way to his inevitable fall, once again, into the Dark Lord's arms. Another moment, and Harry really did fall, burying himself in Voldemort's robes, holding onto him as though clinging to his own life. Voldemort stiffened in surprise at the gesture, but slowly relaxed into Harry's hold, even wrapping his arms around Harry's shoulders as well.

"_I cannot love you." _The words fell from Voldemort's lips in Parseltongue, whispered against his hair.

Harry closed his eyes, not quite believing him, but didn't respond. Finding love in Voldemort held the key to the wizarding world, to the freedom of Muggles and Muggleborns and all that was good everywhere. Harry would try forever, for as long as he lived. He would try, because he had nothing else left to try, nothing else left to live for.

Voldemort may have yielded his soul to Harry unwillingly, but the Dark Lord could still give him his heart.


	23. IV:4

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort, sexual content

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

A/N: Yikes, guys, sorry for the wait. I was going to have this up this weekend, but I got really ill, and I'm still getting over it :( Anyways, I hope you all like this next chapter! I hope it's not too boring/sappy; I tried hard to keep the pace going, but I had some conversations that really needed to happen, and I just hope it didn't end up being too much plot/angst/boringness. Thank you for your reviews as always, they helped me push through this chapter despite my fever!

Also, if you have a few minutes, would you please click on my FF profile and check out my Youtube page? I've been recording covers of various songs with my sister. The latest one that we've done, Poison and Wine by The Civil Wars, really reminds me of this pairing (for obvious reasons). So you should check it out for that if nothing else! Thanks :) [/shameless self-promotion]

* * *

><p>4.<p>

That evening, Voldemort did not leave the cottage.

Harry wasn't sure how long they had held each other in the dim light of his bedroom, simply standing, breathing, the connection between their minds humming with simultaneous tension and relief. When the Dark Lord finally extracted himself from Harry's embrace, he had given Harry a look that the boy couldn't quite decipher, and, for a second, Harry had been afraid that Voldemort was going to revert to the horrible man that had called Harry worthless, accused him of the manipulative behavior of which only Albus Dumbledore was characteristic.

And then Voldemort had leaned down to graze his lips softly against Harry's scar, a kiss that Harry might not have even noticed if he hadn't been hanging on every hitch in Voldemort's breath, on every slight movement of his fingers as though his life depended on it.

"Visit with your friends, Harry," Voldemort had gently instructed him pulling away. "Do not exit their room until I call you."

Harry had left him without another word.

When Harry pushed the door to the second bedroom open, Ron and Hermione looked up uncertainly from where they sat on the bed - Hermione, hunched over with her arms folded across her chest, and Ron, a comforting arm reaching across her shoulder. He realized as the red-head shrank away from her that he had interrupted something special, something private, and he wasn't sure if he was thrilled that they had finally grown up enough to find a relationship together or bitterly jealous that they could be so effortlessly normal and happy.

"Hi," Harry said, and closed the door, locking himself into a silence that was ten times more uncomfortable than the one he had just left.

Ron, at least, was not acting any differently - his face was the epitome of suspicious bewilderment, as it always seemed to be these days - but Hermione wouldn't look up from her lap, save for the initial look of surprise she had sent Harry's way when he had opened the door. Something in Harry's chest tightened painfully at the telling purse of her lips, the narrowing of her eyes, before she turned her gaze away from him.

Could she know?

"You alright, mate?" Ron said, his voice wavering a bit.

"I don't know," Harry answered honestly, and sat down at the chess table. Ron whispered something in Hermione's ear, quiet enough that Harry couldn't quite make out what he was saying. She shook her head out of the corner of his eye. Harry didn't care to ask what he had said.

The silence seemed to stretch on for miles. None of them spoke for a long time after that. Harry tried to think about what Voldemort was planning, what would be waiting for him when the Dark Lord summoned him from his friend's jail cell. He found that he didn't much care.

Eventually, Ron's arm ended up back around Hermione, and Harry began fiddling with a chess rook, averting his eyes from what he felt was a very intimate moment between his two best friends, whom he had never even seen holding hands before. He was acutely aware that it was his own fault that they were in this awful situation in the first place, that they were locked up in this tiny room without any control over their own privacy. And all for the selfish, hopeless cause of redeeming a mass murderer. Self-hatred washed over him in icy waves, and the boy squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tightening on the rook as he felt the bitter sting of tears in the corners of his eyes again.

"Harry," Hermione said suddenly, breaking the silence. She rose to her feet in half a second, and then she was beside him, her arms around his shoulders, her face in his hair. Harry tried to take a deep breath to calm himself, but it came out as half a sob, and then he was leaning against her, his body shaking and his breathing harsh and painful.

"Blimey," Ron said from across the room, and then he came to kneel next to Hermione, placing his hand awkwardly, soothingly on Harry's knee. "Harry, don't … please …"

"I'm sorry." He tried to stop them, but they wouldn't be held back any longer: hot, damning tears began to spill down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry …"

_For giving in. For doing this to you. For letting everyone down._

"Harry, it's not your fault," Ron said gently, but this only seemed to upset him more.

"I'm sorry," Harry said again; it seemed to be all that he could say.

"Harry," Hermione said, more firmly this time, and she knelt down beside Ron. "Harry, look at me."

The boy took a deep breath and opened his eyes. The accusatory glares he expected were not there; instead he only saw the faces of the two greatest friends he could ever ask for, their love and trust for him unconditional and boundless.

"We're your best friends," Hermione said, voicing Harry's thoughts, her eyes pleading. "We trust you. We always will, and we'll stand next to you and support you, no matter what. Forever," and her voice cracked a little on this last word, as it had somehow become a painful reality in the past few weeks - that their trust in Harry could truly affect the rest of their lives forever.

Harry took off his glasses so that he could wipe at his eyes. He drew in a deep breath. "Of course," Harry said, his voice trembling, "but I didn't ask you to, I never wanted you to - "

"We know, we know. You can do it all by yourself," Ron interrupted, and his face broke out into a smile that was touched by a little sadness. "You've been telling us that since we were in first year, but it didn't stop us then. We're here for the long run, mate, whether you like it or not."

Harry's chest tightened again, and he wasn't sure if it was because of his joy that he had such incredible, reliable friends or because of the sudden surge of guilt that these wonderful people would place their trust in him so erroneously.

Harry opened his mouth then to contest this - to tell them that they shouldn't trust him, that they shouldn't have followed him all the way to hell's doorstep, that he didn't deserve their friendship - but Hermione suddenly reached forward and pressed two fingers to his lips, silencing him.

"Don't," Hermione said softly. "I know what you're going to say, and none of it's true. It doesn't matter. We're going to support you, no matter what happens, so don't even bother trying to tell us otherwise."

_No matter what happens_. Harry didn't know what to say to that. Could she know? How could she, and still bear to look him in the eye? And yet here she was, her eyes sparkling with secrets and her lips curved in a small smile, and there was no doubt in Harry's mind that she must have figured it out.

"Thank you," Harry said when she removed her fingers, unable to think of any other proper response. Gratitude made his limbs light, made it easier for him to breathe again.

They sat like that for a little while longer, the tension in the air having dissolved with those few words. It was at least few more minutes before Ron rose to his feet, stretching and smiling.

"Fancy a game of chess, Harry? Hermione is rubbish at it; I've beat her every time."

"That's not true!" Hermione shot back, falling easily into their bickering, familiar territory for all of them. "I've beat you at least twice."

"Oh, well if you're counting the night I could hardly stand up because I was so tired and you insisted that we play anyway - "

"I would love a game of chess," Harry interrupted with an irrepressable smile, trying to stop them before it got violent. "It's been ages, though; I don't know if I'll be much good."

They continued to bicker as Harry and Ron settled down at the chess board, and then even more as Hermione tried to give him suggestions for his next move. When Ron insisted stubbornly that a chess master such as himself did not need any assistance, Hermione turned her suggestions instead to Harry, and, with their combined efforts, they had nearly gained the upper hand against Ron when there was a knock on the door.

Harry froze, both surprised that Voldemort had the courtesy to knock on a door - since when did Dark Lords knock before entering, especially in their own houses? - and discouraged by this sudden jolt back to reality. Hermione, however, only reached down and squeezed his hand.

"Go," she said, and smiled.

Harry went to the door and opened it. He was greeted with a myriad of delicious smells - garlic, onions, chicken - wafting through the door. He had just enough time to process that Voldemort had cooked dinner before he realized that the Dark Lord was standing in front of him, looking suspiciously past him into the bedroom.

"They upset you," Voldemort said flatly, glaring past Harry's shoulder. The boy felt a prickle in his scar and was reminded of how easily the man could slip into his mind and sense his emotions. He had been so upset before that he hadn't even noticed the Dark Lord probing about in his head.

"You upset me," Harry corrected, surprising even himself with his brashness. Voldemort narrowed his eyes.

"I prepared dinner." He gestured behind him, and Harry was suddenly sorry that they had fought; watching Lord Voldemort in the kitchen would have been an amusing sight. "For your friends as well," he added, sneering with distaste.

Harry blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. He had already been planning to sneak something up here for his friends to eat later; he certainly had not expected the Dark Lord to cook dinner for him, never mind for Ron and Hermione as well.

"It'll get cold," Voldemort added wryly, with the slightest, briefest of smirks at Harry's surprise. The boy shook himself and turned around, meeting his friends gazes, which were laden with confusion.

"Supper," Harry said, jerking his head toward the door. "Come on."

Eyes wide - and Ron's face was considerably paler than it had been a few seconds ago, Harry noticed - his friends got up from the chess board and walked toward the door. When Harry turned around, he saw that Voldemort had already disappeared down the stairs, no doubt to tend to whatever smelled so delicious down there. He was struck with a pang of affection; this was clearly Voldemort's attempt at a proper apology, as there was no other reason that Voldemort would subject himself to Ron and Hermione's company longer than he needed to.

Maybe, Harry thought with a bit of hope as they began to make their way down the hallway, Ron whispering with panic to Hermione behind him - just maybe, Voldemort would be decent toward them just this once. He would be the funny and clever man that Harry had become so enamoured with over the past few weeks, and perhaps Ron and Hermione would understand how Harry could bear to spend so much time with his parents' murderer.

Any hope that he had for this far-fetched fantasy, however, fell apart in the very awkward silence that filled the kitchen as the trio sat themselves down around the table, which was already made up with plates of a dish that Harry did not recognize - chicken, onions, mushrooms, with a sauce that smelled of wine and garlic. Voldemort did not turn to look at them as they entered the room; he was busy pouring wine into four glasses at the counter.

Ron's eyes widened nearly to the size of saucers as he took in the meal on the table. He glanced uncertainly at his plate, and then back up at Harry, suspicion written clearly all over his face.

"It's not poisoned, Weasley," Voldemort said dryly from the counter, his back still to the three friends. Ron squeaked, and Harry felt Voldemort's amusement humming in his scar.

Ron widened his eyes at Harry, and Harry nodded his encouragement in response - he knew that Voldemort had promised he would not harm them. Licking his lips with a grin, Ron grabbed his fork and knife and went to dig in to his dinner - and then yelped as both flew up out of his grip, soaring up into the air and into Voldemort's outstretched hand. The man still hadn't turned around.

"Weasley, if I recall correctly, I haven't killed your parents yet, so you've no excuse for poor table manners." Voldemort shot a half-hearted glare over his shoulder at Ron, who tried to make himself disappear in his chair.

"I - it just - smells really good," Ron said rather lamely, and Harry saw Hermione cover a giggle with her hand out of the corner of his eye, no doubt exceptionally pleased that someone else was objecting to Ron's lack of table manners as well.

"Then again, I suppose you haven't been exposed to much in the way of refined culture," Voldemort went on, his voice drawling. "Did your mother simply slop food into a trough and allow you all to gather round and feed every evening?"

Angry color splotched across Ron's cheeks, and Harry put all of his energy into glaring at the back of Voldemort's head.

"Mrs. Weasley has cooked some of the best dinners I've ever tasted," Harry retorted angrily before Ron could do anything stupid. Concentrating on the magical thread that stretched out from his scar, Harry added silently, "_I could send them back upstairs if you're just going to be a git_."

Voldemort glowered at Harry as he carried over the wine glasses. "Relax," he said, placing them in front of Ron and Hermione; Ron shrank away, as though an accidental touch from Voldemort might scorch his skin. "I thought you might appreciate some humor."

"Well, it wasn't funny," Ron grumbled, reaching out to take the glass from the table and then recoiling before he could touch it, as though afraid Voldemort might snatch that away too.

"Ron's table manners have always been horrendous," Hermione spoke up unexpectedly, her voice surprisingly cheerful. She was staring at Voldemort with a determined, thoughtful look on her face, and Harry swallowed; what was she up to?

Voldemort seemed to sense this as well; he gave her a very wary look before walking back over to the counter again.

"Please don't let it reflect poorly on his family," Hermione went on. "He's a hopeless case when it comes to civil, polite behavior - it's no one's fault but his own." Ron scowled at her, completely affronted, but she ignored it. "The Weasleys are wonderful people, really."

"I'm sure I'd be delighted to meet them," Voldemort said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he set the two remaining wine glasses on the table.

A fork and knife materialized on either side of Ron's plate. The red-head glared at them, stubbornly refusing to pick them up. Hermione, however, placed her napkin in her lap and started to eat as soon as Voldemort did. Harry smiled and followed suit, closing his eyes as the rich taste of chicken marinated in wine melted on his tongue.

When he opened them, Ron was still staring bitterly at his fork and knife, his plate untouched.

"It is perhaps just as rude, Weasley, to refuse dinner that has been prepared by a gracious host." Voldemort was narrowing his eyes, but Harry could feel through his scar how much amusement the man was gaining from taunting his friend.

"Host?" Ron repeated with a snort, and Harry felt the amusement turn to a prickle of irritation.

"This is delicious," Harry blurted out, eager to steer the conversation in a different direction. "What is it, anyway?"

"Coq au vin," Voldemort replied in smooth French, his eyes still narrowed in Ron's direction. "Not that you would know, considering the company you keep."

"I've had it before," Hermione said gently, before Ron's head could explode from the blood rushing to his face. "Although this is the best dish of it that I've ever had."

"The Muggle is more cultured than you are, Weasley," Voldemort said, not taking his eyes away from the red-head, who looked even angrier than he had before. "How does that feel?"

"She's not a Muggle!" Ron all but roared, taking the bait. Hermione pursed her lips and sighed. Harry buried his face in his hands.

It was going to be a long dinner.

* * *

><p>The evening seemed to last an eternity. When Ron had finally finished his plate - and although he had taken an exceedingly long time to eat, pretending as though he didn't enjoy it, Harry knew that he'd thought it was delicious - Hermione escorted a very red-faced Weasley up the stairs to their bedroom, bidding Harry a resigned, "goodnight," as she went. Voldemort had needled and toyed with Ron for the entirety of their supper, despite Harry and Hermione's best efforts to alter the topic of conversation, and although Ron had remained for the most part silent and seething, there had been a few close calls that might have ended very poorly if Harry or Hermione had not stepped in.<p>

"Charming children," Voldemort said dryly when the sound of their door closing carried down the stairs.

"Could you have made that any more difficult?" Harry sighed, pushing his plate forward. "They were nearly starting to like you, you know."

Voldemort curled his lip in disgust at this idea. "Fortunately, it is not their affections that I care for." The man brushed his fingers against the back of Harry's hand, and Harry felt something flutter in his chest that felt suspiciously hopeful. "Was dinner to your taste?"

"It was delicious." Harry drew his hand off the table and to his lap, looking away. "Thank you."

There was a brief silence in which Harry refused to meet the man's eyes, pain from their earlier conversation suddenly returning in the absence of his friends.

"Harry." Warm fingers touched his cheek, and the boy forced himself to glance upward. The look in Voldemort's eyes was confused, almost panicked. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Harry wasn't sure if he was talking about their argument before or his snide remarks during dinner. "You didn't," he said, a lie that could be applied to both instances. "I'm fine."

Voldemort's fingers rolled into a smooth palm, cupping his cheek, and his gaze was so intense, so sincere, that Harry almost had to turn away. "I don't want you to hurt anymore, Harry," he said quietly, and something tightened painfully in Harry's chest, disbelieving. "I've caused you enough pain in your life."

There was something so unexpected and painful about this admission that Harry almost didn't want to believe it. Believing it meant lowering his guard, baring his heart and his feelings so that Voldemort could tear them apart again.

"I don't believe you," Harry said, so quietly that he wasn't sure the Dark Lord had heard him speak, his voice breaking a little.

Harry registered vaguely that the sharp sting in his chest was not his own. The boy lowered his eyes, not wanting to see the pain in the face staring back at him, afraid that Voldemort would snap and get angry with him again. But Voldemort only leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Harry's ear.

"Let me show you."

It was the third time that some incarnation of Voldemort had spoken those words to him, and they still made Harry shiver all over.

Voldemort grasped Harry's wrist, and in the blink of an eye, they were in the bedroom, dark with the absence of daylight, with the knowledge of what had transpired between them that day. And still Voldemort's eyes glowed red, bright, even in the dark. _Red, the color of anger, and passion, and love._

They made love that night. Voldemort undressed him slowly, kissed every inch of Harry's skin as it was revealed to him, lingering at the places that made Harry sigh and arch his back. He touched Harry with tenderness that Harry had never known existed in the world, never mind in the Dark Lord himself. The bridge between their minds was wide open, a road of sensation and feeling, and Voldemort used it to know exactly where to press his lips, his tongue, his fingertips on Harry's skin, which came undone beneath the man's gentle caresses.

They moved as one in the darkness, their bodies ebbing and flowing in the tides of their lovemaking. For the first time, as Voldemort moved slowly, gently inside of him, long, slow strokes that made Harry's insides light up with liquid pleasure, Harry realized that this is where he belonged, his completion and his downfall all wrapped up in the same person.

He wasn't sure when it had happened. Perhaps it was that first, gentle kiss Voldemort pressed against Harry's throat as he led Harry to the bed. Or it might have even been that moment when Voldemort had held Harry's face gently between his hands, rolling his hips inside of him and gazing at Harry as though he were the most precious thing in the world. But Harry decided sometime that evening that everything had changed. He was going to find Voldemort's heart and he was going to transform it, clean it, heal it. He would fight to change this magnificent, powerful, incredible person, even if it killed him.

They came in the same moment, together, fire coursing through them and ripping Voldemort's true name from Harry's lips.

They lay there for many long moments of harsh breathing and soft kisses before Voldemort spoke again, his naked body still pressed along the length of Harry's own.

"I hate that name." Voldemort rolled off of him, the scarlet softening in his eyes as he traced his finger along Harry's scar. "But you make it sound beautiful."

The boy smiled, his heartbeat failing to diminish in its pace. Biting his lip to calm his nerves, Harry slowly rolled over to drape his arm across Voldemort's chest, and he rested his cheek hesitantly against the man's shoulder, his heart pounding in his chest.

The Dark Lord stiffened visibly underneath him, muscles tightening, and for a moment, Harry was sure that Voldemort was going to shove him off. But then the pale, smooth body underneath him relaxed, and a few moments later, an arm even came around to rest gently around his shoulder.

"Thank you," Harry said again, the second time that night. He closed his eyes, intensely aware of every spot that their bodies touched beneath the blankets, of the slow, steady rise and fall of Voldemort's chest beneath his arm.

He would come to look back on this night, many weeks later, as the beginning of the end.

* * *

><p>"What's this?"<p>

Harry plucked the miniature snake off of the sitting room floor. It was about the length of his middle finger, and upon closer examination, seemed to be a perfectly animated replica of Nagini.

Voldemort looked up from the text that he was flipping through. It was written in Parseltongue, and it gave Harry a headache to look at for too long, but its contents were apparently the subject of their lesson today.

"A gift," Voldemort said loftily, looking back down at the book to find the page he was looking for. "From Bellatrix Lestrange."

Harry felt his hackles rise at the mention of the woman's name. "What would she be giving you a gift for?" he said, surprised by how demanding he sounded.

Voldemort chuckled. "Jealous, Harry?"

Harry breathed out forcefully through his nostrils, avoiding the man's eye as he raised the miniature snake to eye-level. It was a beautiful creature, expertly crafted, and whoever had magicked it to life had certainly done a good job of making it imitate Nagini; the tiny thing was spitting and rearing its head at Harry angrily.

"She's psychotic," Harry said, bitterness tinging his voice. "And she killed my godfather. You can hardly blame me."

"Ah, yes. Unfortunate, that." Harry was briefly afraid that the man would mock him for mourning Sirius' death, but, thankfully, the Dark Lord did not press the issue. "Relax, Harry. It was only a Christmas present. A common gesture, even among us soulless Death Eaters, no?"

This statement hit Harry like a sack of bricks. Christmas had passed and he hadn't even realized it. They had done nothing to celebrate. This, if nothing else, made the entire situation seem realer than it ever had before. He had spent so many Christmases with the Weasley family or even at Hogwarts, swapping presents, eating feasts, indulging in holiday cheer, and this Christmas had gone by without any acknowledgement from anyone in the cottage. They were truly detached from the rest of the world, perhaps never to return. His heart ached painfully at the idea of never spending another Christmas with the Weasleys again.

"Christmas?" repeated Harry, trying to sound casual and failing. "How long ago was it?"

"A few days ago," Voldemort replied nonchalantly, not looking up. "I didn't think it was of import."

"We could have celebrated," Harry mumbled, uncurling his palm so that the tiny Nagini could slither along his fingers. He decided he rather liked her this size; she was much less likely to eat his friends this way.

"I suppose you would have wanted to trade presents?" Voldemort sneered. "I don't do very well with celebrations, Harry."

Celebrations. Harry was struck with sudden inspiration.

"What's the date?" Harry said mildly, looking up. Voldemort narrowed his eyes suspiciously, raising them from his book to look at Harry. "Today, what's the date?"

"December 29," he said, his voice wary. "Why do you ask?"

Harry couldn't help the smile that spread across his face, hesitant glee warming him all over. They may have missed Christmas, but Harry could still find another reason to show Voldemort why celebrations were something to look forward to, not to dread.

"Harry," Voldemort warned, frowning, and Harry cursed himself for leaving his mind so open to the other man. "I'm not sure where you acquired that particular piece of information, but I haven't ever found a reason to celebrate the day of my birth, excepting the fact that it rid me of the cursed woman who has shamed my ancestry."

Harry had the urge to point out that, had that 'cursed woman' not existed in the first place, Voldemort would never have been born at all, but he decided that this was not the moment to be picking arguments and remained silent.

"Besides," Voldemort continued, "I'm not even going to be here for the majority of the day. I've a prior engagement."

Harry felt himself visibly deflate. "A prior engagement?" Harry repeated, dumbfounded. "With who, Bellatrix?"

Voldemort chuckled again. "No, you dolt, not with Bellatrix. Severus has been assisting me with a project, and we have something to investigate that afternoon. I'm afraid I won't be returning until later that evening."

Harry brightened up a little at this. Perhaps that meant he could spend the day preparing for Voldemort's return, surprise him, even. Harry had not celebrated his birthday for the first eleven years of his life - at least, no one else had celebrated it with him - and he knew firsthand what an awful feeling it was, to be alone and unnoticed on your birthday. No wonder the man was so damaged. Maybe he could show Voldemort what was so special about celebrating Christmas and birthdays and life in general.

"What is this budding fascination with Bellatrix, anyhow?" Voldemort interrupted his thoughts with a sly, teasing smile. "Surely you aren't trying to require your lord to inform you of all his conquests?"

Harry frowned and furrowed his brow as a wave of panic washed over him. Voldemort couldn't be implying that he and Bellatrix were … had been …

"Harry, relax," Voldemort said, and he actually laughed now, warm and genuine and spreading all the way down to Harry's toes. The man's smile turned a little predatory, then, and he gave Harry a look that heated Harry up in other ways. "If I can ever find a finer specimen than you, I will snap my wand in two and join the Muggles."

Harry couldn't help but smile as he imagined Voldemort in the Muggle world - at a grocery store, driving a car, riding the Underground. And then he noticed the way that Voldemort was still looking at him, the heat flaring up behind his red eyes, and decided that there was a lot more to this situation than amusement. Chewing on his bottom lip, Harry sauntered over to where Voldemort sat on the couch, the Parseltongue text still in his lap.

"Are you sure, _my lord_?" Harry teased, placing mocking emphasis on the title and loading his gaze with as many dirty thoughts as he could fit. Feeling particularly daring, Harry plucked the book off of Voldemort's thighs and tossed it on the couch. "Perhaps you ought to get another look before you commit to something so … binding."

It worked. Voldemort's eyes darkened significantly, and he shifted on the couch, a smirk playing across his lips. "Such a clever boy, Harry," he murmured approvingly. "Binding. That actually brings us directly to our lesson. Perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone, hm?"

Harry felt all the blood in his body rush to his groin, and his tongue slipped out to make a circuit of too-dry lips. "Good thinking," Harry said, his voice suddenly hoarse, and the boy straddled Voldemort's lap without another thought.

It turned out that he didn't learn very much that afternoon, except for, perhaps, that snakes conjured with _Serpensortia _could be a rather effective tool to pin your enemies down, given the right amount of coaxing in Parseltongue.

* * *

><p>The 31st of December would change everything.<p>

As the sun rose on the snowy, sleepy French forest, Harry Potter was only pretending to sleep. He kept his breathing as steady as possible as he felt Voldemort slip out of the bed beside him, the light of dawn barely having seeped through the curtains. The only evidence that the boy was even awake was the small smile tugging at his lips as he listened to the Dark Lord pulling on his robes, slipping into his boots, and sneaking out of the bedroom.

Harry knew that the man was trying to escape unnoticed before Harry could ambush him with whatever ridiculous plans he had concocted for this particular day. And Harry would let him go. Harry had long since given up on attempting to convince the man to stay home for his birthday - even promises of Harry naked and tied up all afternoon didn't sway him - but Harry had figured out a way to get around Voldemort's refusal to give the afternoon to him. He would take full advantage of their evening instead.

Harry strained his ears as the Dark Lord walked down the stairs, nearly as silent as a ghost save for the stray creaking of a stair. As soon as he heard the front door gently close on the first level, Harry allowed his face to break out into a full-fledged grin, and he scrambled out of bed, heart racing with excitement.

His glasses on his nose and his pajamas back on his body (all of those promises of a naked Harry for his birthday had not gone to waste; Voldemort had not let them fall flat last night, at least), Harry stumbled out into the hallway, yawning. He almost burst into the second bedroom without warning, but then he remembered Ron's arm around Hermione's shoulder the other day and his cheeks colored a little at his insensitivity. He wouldn't want to interrupt anything; _that _certainly was not a mental image that he was longing to have floating around in his head.

Pausing, the boy pressed his ear to the door, trying to listen to any signs of … ahem, life. When he was only met with silence (and thank Merlin for that), Harry turned the brass knob and opened the door as slowly as he could.

The sight of his sleeping friends, the brand new daylight just beginning to spill over their still bodies, nearly made something in Harry's heart break open. Hermione was lying on her side with her back to Ron, who had the whole length of his body pressed against her. Their fingers were intertwined on the pillow that was beneath Hermione's head, and Ron's face was buried in Hermione's hair.

They looked so happy and at ease with each other, their faces peaceful and content. They weren't destined to kill each other; they didn't have completely opposite views of the world and the people in it. They were just two kids, best friends and perhaps even lovers, supporting each other and caring for each other during these terrible times.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment to try to dispel the sudden surge of envy that had coursed through him at this train of thought. Perhaps all was not yet lost. Perhaps he could still change the courses of their destinies. Maybe one day, Harry and Voldemort could lie together like this, at peace with one another and the world around them.

Clinging to this thought for inspiration, Harry opened his eyes and made his way over to the bed and guiltily shook Hermione's arm, trying to wake her up.

"Hermione," Harry whispered, not wanting to startle them. "Hermione, Ron, wake up."

Ron was the first one to jerk awake, sitting straight up in the bed and blinking his eyes in panic around the room. "What is it? What is it, Harry, is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes, everything's fine," Harry replied, feeling guilty again that he was awakening them so early, but it was for a good cause. "I need your help with something."

Hermione sat up, rubbing her eyes groggily. "What time is it?"

"I'm not sure," Harry said. "But I'm also not sure how much time we have." Which was the truth; he hadn't expected Voldemort to leave this early in the morning. Perhaps that would mean that he would return earlier as well.

"What is it, mate?" Ron said, his eyes wide and hopeful. "Have you figured out a way to escape?"

Harry bit his lip. He should have expected that. "Well, not exactly," he said, averting his eyes. "But it might be able to help us escape eventually. Perhaps he'd even let us."

"Let us? Harry, have you gone mad?" Ron looked at his best friend like he'd sprouted another head. "Don't you see the way he looks at you? He's not letting you go anywhere."

Harry didn't look up. To be honest, when he'd said 'us,' he'd really meant 'you,' but that distinction was going to be a tough one to explain at the moment, and he didn't have the time nor the willingness to do so. "Look, I've got this theory," he began, sitting down on the bed next to them.

Hermione and Ron were both sitting up now, looking at him attentively, wide awake.

"Go on," Hermione urged when Harry didn't continue immediately as he tried to gather the right words to say.

"Well, you see, Voldemort's gone his entire life without knowing any friendship, or … or love." He tried not to put too much emphasis on this word, lest he give himself away, but the way his voice broke said more than any amount of emphasis he could put in his voice. "He's cruel because of it. He's bitter about his childhood, and he hasn't let it go, even all these years later."

He paused and dared a glance at them. Ron was still looking at Harry as though he had suddenly transformed into Cerberus, but the understanding in Hermione's gaze confirmed what Harry had already suspected - she had figured all of this out long ago.

"He's opened up to me," Harry said, drawing encouragement from Hermione's eyes. "Since he's learned that I'm his Horcrux, he's been honest and considerate. I'm the only other person he's ever been able to relate to. We went through a lot of the same things as children, you know. And he really is very kind to me," he added, desperate for his friends to understand.

"But what does this have to do with escape?" Ron asked with a frown.

"I think I can convince him to call the whole thing off," Harry said, the admission sounding impossible, stupid, even as he said it. "The war, the killing, all of it. I think I can change his mind."

"Harry," Ron began, his voice full of doubt, but Hermione shushed him.

"Please," Harry said. "I need your help. It's his birthday today," and here Ron pulled a face, as though he expected that Dark Lords didn't have birthdays, but rather that they tumbled full-formed and snake-like from the bowels of hell itself. "Please. I want to … I don't know, bake him something. Perhaps a cake." He felt his cheeks warming a little; baking a cake for the Dark Lord seemed like a silly thing to think about, now that he was saying it aloud. "But I don't know how," he added, looking at Hermione now. "I need your help," he said again.

Ron looked positively scandalized. "Let me get this straight," Ron said, staring at Harry with disbelief. "We offer to go everywhere with you, do anything for you, face You-Know-Who himself … and the only time that you're going to ask us for help is to bake a bloody _cake_?"

Hermione shoved him in the arm. "Oh, Ronald," she said, glaring. "Of course we'll help you, Harry. I think that's a perfectly brave thing for you to do."

"You-Know-Who, death by cake," Ron said, sniggering, and Hermione shoved him again, nearly knocking him off the bed this time.

"Really?" Harry said, gratitude rushing through him like a tidal wave. There would be no questions, no accusations? They would just help him bake a cake for Voldemort, and that was that?

"Harry, I thought we went over this already," Hermione said, and she smiled at him, brilliant and beautiful. When had she grown up so much? "We're here to support you, no matter what."

Hermione fried eggs on the stove top for breakfast while Harry and Ron dug through the pantry, searching for ingredients that Hermione called over her shoulder. Hermione explained that she had made cakes from scratch in the past with her father, who had taught her how to cook, but never without a recipe. Nevertheless, she promised she would do her best to help Harry make the best birthday cake they could manage. They even had ingredients for icing, both chocolate and vanilla.

They waited until late morning to begin the preparations. Hermione hummed a song as she and Harry mixed ingredients together. Ron offered commentary and sneaked bits of cake batter from the bowls when Hermione wasn't looking. And Harry couldn't seem to keep the smile from his face.

Everything was perfect. Everything was going to be alright.

When they had sufficiently beat the ingredients all together in a mixing bowl, they poured the batter into a baking pan and placed it in the oven. They had been tasting bits of the batter as they went along to gauge how well Hermione was remembering the recipe, but when it came down to it, the final product would depend on luck, just like everything else in Harry's life.

As they waited for the cake to bake in the oven, Harry and Hermione began mixing ingredients for the icing. Ron tried to sneak a taste of this as well, except this time, Hermione caught him in the act and whacked him over the head with a wooden spoon covered in icing. He proceeded to smear the icing from the spoon all over her face, much to her displeasure (and squealing), and general silliness and icing-flinging ensued.

By the time noon rolled around, they had taken the cake from the oven (it had risen nicely, thanks to some well-worded prayers to the gods and goddesses of all things baking), and started to ice the cake together. They gathered around the table, a knife in each hand, smoothing chocolate icing along the fluffy dessert in companionable silence. They had had to make a second batch of icing, as the first batch was now all over their hair and faces, as well as a wayward flick stuck on the ceiling that none of them could scrub off all the way without a wand.

"Do you reckon it will really work?" Ron said as they covered up the last bit of the cake with chocolate icing. His eyes were dreadfully hopeful, but Harry did not find himself compelled to look away. For the first time in many months, Harry had confidence in himself, that things might actually work out the way that he had planned them for once.

"Yeah," Harry said, taking a new knife and dipping it in the vanilla icing. He bit his lip and focused his attention on the cake, on the image with which he was decorating it. He looked back up at his two best friends, green eyes glittering with the first amount of genuine happiness he had felt in ages, with hope and confidence and certainty. "Yeah, I really do."

And then, out of no where - a loud, ear-splitting crash.

Hermione screamed and Ron jumped up, yelling. Harry managed not to cry out, but rather pushed back his chair and sprang to his feet, hand groping for his wand for the umpteenth time and only closing around thin air.

His mind was only registering two things: that the crash had come from the hallway near the front door, and that, without their wands, they were utterly, completely defenseless.

Thinking as quickly as he could, Harry flew to the drawer of utensils and grabbed the biggest knife he could find. He knew that it wouldn't be much against magic, but perhaps they would get lucky and it would just be some Muggles, coming to make trouble in an abandoned cottage.

"Ron! Harry! Are you in here?"

All of his hope and happiness drained from him in half of a heartbeat, just like that.

"Dad!" Ron cried, and he sprinted into the hallway, a blur of gangly limbs and red hair. Hermione's mouth formed a perfectly surprised "o" before it broke into the biggest smile Harry had ever seen. She said something to Harry that he didn't quite hear before she rushed out after Ron, nearly crying with relief.

And Harry, Harry couldn't remember how to speak. He couldn't seem to do much of anything but stand there, really, his legs frozen solid to the ground, his fingers curled around the kitchen knife. His eyes wandered from the cake on the table to the window outside to the hallway, where he could now see the splintered remains of their beautiful front door on the ground and a huddle of adults embracing Ron and Hermione in the clearing dust.

They had come. The Order had arrived. They were rescued.

Why couldn't Harry bring himself to feel even remotely happy about this?

Only a week ago, he had seen Madame Delacour, nearly begged her on his hands and knees to pass along the message of their whereabouts. Only a week ago, he could hardly get the thought of escape out of his head long enough to keep it from Voldemort's prying fingers. He should be happy. He should be thrilled. He certainly shouldn't be stuck on the image of Voldemort's face, melting into a smile when he returned home that evening to a homemade cake, melting into Harry's arms in his bed. Or, even worse, the shock and horror that would twist it when he found every room empty, the door blasted to bits in the hallway.

"Harry!" Ron called happily, returning to the kitchen a little breathless. A large group of adults followed him – Mr. Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Bill Weasley, Elphias Doge, all faces that he recognized from the Order.

"Is he hurt?" squeaked a little man from the back of the group, whom Harry recognized as Dedalus Diggle. "Have they been tortured?"

"Is that a cake?" Bill asked, frowning at the chocolate concoction on the table.

"We must leave at once," Mr. Weasley said. "We don't want to engage in a confrontation – "

"Harry, put the knife down." Hermione pushed past the others, stepped hesitantly into the kitchen. She looked frightened, and maybe even a little sad.

"Hermione," Harry said, his voice choked, and he was surprised to feel tears gathering in his eyes. "He's going to be back soon – the cake isn't finished – "

"Have you gone mad?" Ron cried with a look of outrage. "He's gone mad! I told you, Hermione! He's been blabbering on all the time about how bloody _nice _he's been to him, and now he's worried about baking a bloody cake when we're finally rescued!"

"Is he bewitched?" Kingsley said in his deep, calming voice, but it did nothing to calm the panic rising in Harry's throat, his heartbeat which was climbing in a steady crescendo.

"Harry, just put down the knife," Hermione begged him quietly, taking another step forward. "We need to leave, _now_ – you'll thank us, you're not thinking clearly – "

"He's going to be back soon!" Harry nearly yelled, fingers tightening around the knife's hilt defensively, although he had no intent to use it. "He's going to be back, this might be our only chance – "

"We don't have time for this!" Mr. Weasley snapped, stepping forward. "We don't have the manpower to engage in a confrontation with Death Eaters! The consequences would be dire!" He raised his wand, pointed it in Harry's direction. "I'm sorry, Harry, but it's for the best."

Hermione cried out, and Harry tried to dodge the jet of red light that shot in his direction, but it was of no use – it hit him square in the chest, sending shockwaves through his body, from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes. As he slumped to the floor, his body limp, he felt Kingsley's strong arms sweep him up, carrying him swiftly toward the hallway.

The last thing Harry knew was the pressing of something foreign in his mind, the calm, cool presence of his enemy and his lover turning to rage, before he was enveloped in darkness.

The half-finished cake was left forgotten on the table, a snake curled around a lightning bolt in white icing, and the words, "Happy birthday, Tom" traced in flowing script beneath.


	24. IV:5

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort, angst

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

A/N: Guys, I'm not evil, I promise. :) Just wanted to put that out there after the number of worried reviews I've gotten the last few chapters, hahaha. I don't want to give anything away - there is plenty of angst in this story, and there's going to be plenty more, I mean, look at the pairing, guys! - so I'll just leave it at the fact that I'm not going to do anything just to be cruel. Putting that aside, thank you so much for all of your comments and feedback! I read and appreciate every single review you guys leave me; it means a lot to me to know that you're enjoying it. I also want to thank the lovely Lord . Voldemort777 for reading through this chapter for me and being such a wonderful friend :)

For those of you wondering how long we've got left in this story, I would venture that this is going to end up being between 35 and 40 chapters. Maybe a little more. It depends how long I end up drawing some parts out. We're not nearing the end quite yet, though. Lots more angst and Dark Lord sex to come, hahaha. So thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

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><p>5.<p>

Harry awoke very suddenly, with a shuddering gasp and a jolt of terrible pain in his forehead.

Confusion and panic overwhelmed him. His eyes flew open, only to be met with darkness, blurry without his spectacles. There was another spasm of fire in his scar, and Harry hissed in response, the pain making it difficult to think clearly about what the hell was going on.

His first instinct was concern. Voldemort must have been absolutely furious for Harry's scar to be reacting this way. What could possibly be upsetting him so much? There was something about this thought, however, that made the panic inside of him intensify tenfold, and he couldn't quite figure out why through the red-hot pain pounding in his skull.

Harry raised a hand to his forehead, the palm of which he found cool and clammy against the burning skin on his face. He pressed it gingerly against his searing scar, winced. Inhaling sharply, Harry reached his hand out blindly to the left, fingers searching for his glasses on the nightstand beside their bed.

Instead of a nightstand, however, his fingers only groped thin air, and then, further, scraped against a rough wall that shouldn't have been there.

Harry sat up so quickly that he nearly slammed his head against a sloped ceiling, which he managed to avoid just in time. Where the hell was he? Looking around, he saw that the room wasn't pitch black like he had first thought; as Harry squinted his eyes, he noticed a small window by the door with the curtains drawn to keep the sunlight out. He registered vaguely that this was almost a good thing - the splitting pain in his head probably wouldn't appreciate the light - but his violent need to figure out what was happening and where he was drove him to continue his search for his glasses, headache be damned.

Blinking a few times to adjust to the darkness, Harry glanced around at the floor, fingers brushing the wooden floorboards. He eventually found his glasses directly beside the small, four-poster bed upon which he was sprawled, and he gratefully pushed them up onto his nose.

With his vision came his location. Orange posters plastered across the ceiling, comics and candy wrappers littered helter-skelter about the floor - he had awoken in this particular bedroom too many times over a Christmas or summer holiday to not recognize where he was. But the real question was, how the hell did he get here?

Another flash of pain in his forehead, and Harry had to screw his eyes shut, breathing hard as he rode out the Dark Lord's latest surge of fury. It was a few more moments before Harry could think clearly again, and as he began to piece it all together, panic, cold and fierce, began to well up in his throat. He was in Ron's bedroom. That meant that he was also in the Burrow. But how did he get here? Where was Voldemort? Harry had been so excited to see him, although he couldn't remember why, and before he could think too much longer about this, a terrifying question, the answer all too obvious, made itself unavoidable in the forefront of his mind.

If he was at the Burrow, didn't that mean that the Order knew where they had been hiding?

Memories suddenly came rushing back to him like a freight train, nearly knocking the wind out of him. The few minutes that had changed everything played over and over again in his inner eye. The cake, the very first he had ever baked, sitting half-finished on the kitchen table - Hermione, begging him to come with them - the pieces of the door, scattered about the hallway from some sort of explosive curse - Arthur Weasley's face as he pointed his wand at Harry and rendered him unconscious.

He relived it all with vivid, lifelike clarity, and then he was left on the bed again, alone, his scar pulsing with pain, his mouth hanging open in horror.

The sound of shouting from the floors below carried through the door, which, on second glance, Harry noticed had been hastily left half-open. In fact, whoever had deposited him on this bed had been in some rush; they hadn't even bothered to tuck him in.

Harry blinked. Tuck him in? Since when had he ever expected people to carry him to bed and pull the covers up?

But then again, whenever Harry had fallen asleep too early, reading a book in the sitting room or collapsing after some particularly physically exhausting activities after dinner, Voldemort had always made sure that Harry was sufficiently covered by the bedclothes, usually even undressing him beforehand.

Unexpected tears filled in his eyes, making his vision blurry again, and Harry blinked them back fiercely. He took a deep, steadying breath to try to calm himself. Now was not the time to get flustered. If the wildfire in his skull was any indication, Voldemort had learned that Harry was missing, and he was not happy about it. Harry wasn't sure how long he had been passed out, but perhaps there was still time to prevent any needless harm from occurring as a result of Voldemort's fury.

And perhaps, Harry thought with a lump in his throat, there was still time for him to explain what had happened before Voldemort drew all the wrong conclusions about Harry's untimely escape.

Swallowing his fear, Harry climbed slowly out of the bed, handling himself carefully, gingerly, not wanting to upset the agony emanating from the burning scar on his forehead. As he approached the door, the voices became clearer, until he could make out the very recognizable sound of Mrs. Weasley unleashing her wrath on her husband.

"... been watching outside the house for _weeks_, and you have the nerve to bring him here of all places! You're going to get him killed - you're going to get _all _of us killed!"

"Molly," Mr. Weasley was saying, his voice strained, "there were Snatchers just outside of Muriel's, they nearly saw us! We couldn't take him there or we'd risk giving away the Fidelius protecting Bill - "

"So you came here?" Mrs. Weasley shrieked, cutting him off. "It's not safe here, Arthur, it's the first place they'll come looking! You've put our entire family in danger!"

"We'll need to leave anyway!" Mr. Weasley said, his voice rising. "You just said it yourself, Molly, they would have come here either way! We're only here to give Tonks enough time to prepare for our arrival - You-Know-Who won't know for at least a few hours yet that we've broken them out, and by that time we will be long gone from the Burrow."

There was a moment of silence in which Harry could imagine the steam gusting out of Mrs. Weasley's ears diminishing to a slow trickle.

"Very well," Mrs. Weasley said, her voice shaking, and Harry felt a pang of sympathy for this woman who had been a mother to him for so long. "I'll start packing our things. You go and tell the children that - "

"What's with all the racket?" Fred's unmistakable tenor - or perhaps it was George, Harry could never quite tell them apart by just their voices - floated up the stairwell.

"There are some people trying to work up here, you know," George added cheerfully.

"Your silly wheezes can wait!" Mrs. Weasley scoffed, lowering her voice so that Harry had to press his ear to the door to hear her speaking. "Harry Potter is sleeping in Ronald's room!"

"Harry's here?" the twins repeated loudly in unison, and Harry couldn't help but smile at the happiness in their voices.

"Hush! You'll wake him!" Mrs. Weasley hissed angrily, but they paid her no heed.

"But when did he get here?" exclaimed George.

"Is Ron back as well then?" said Fred.

And then there was the sound of a door banging open on one of the lower levels, and a voice so painfully familiar that it made Harry's heart nearly stop beating in his chest.

"Mum! Did you say Harry's here?"

"Ginny, sweetheart, I don't think he's quite fit for visitors - " Mr. Weasley began, but one of the twins cut him off.

"He's in Ron's room! Mum just said so."

There was the sound of someone pounding furiously up the stairs, accompanied by Mrs. Weasley calling half-heartedly after her daughter, and Harry's mouth went completely dry with panic. _Ginny_. He had hardly thrown himself across the bed on his back and shut his eyes before the door burst open with a bang. He winced. Ginny had never been subtle, that was for sure.

"Oh, Harry." She was kneeling beside him in an instant, her arms thrown across his prone body and her face buried in his chest. Harry was mortified to notice that there were tears seeping through his shirt, _Ginny's _tears. His initial thought was to feign sleep until she went away, but he realized as she gave a small sob that this would not be an option. As terrible as he was about comforting people, especially girls, Harry couldn't simply lie still and pretend to snore while Ginny cried against him.

Awkwardly, Harry raised his hand to her hair, hair that he used to love to comb his fingers through as they lay together in the summer sun. That felt like a different lifetime now, a different person altogether. Now, as his fingers hesitantly smoothed into the red hair that reminded him so much of his mother, he could stir up none of the feelings that he had been struggling to force last summer, and every summer before it, for that matter.

Feelings that paled in comparison to the way he felt when Voldemort's arms were around him, when Harry could coax a laugh out of that cruel mouth, when the man would scatter kisses across his collarbone.

"Harry, I'm so glad you're alright," she sighed, her voice choked with tears. She straightened up slowly and released him from her suffocating embrace. "I've been worried out of my mind. It must've been so awful. Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," Harry replied curtly, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. _I was perfectly fine without any of your help, actually_. He continued to comb his fingers through her hair, a gesture so often repeated that it nearly came naturally to him. "He didn't hurt us or anything. We were treated rather well, really."

Ginny either chose to ignore this statement or didn't process what it meant. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes instead, which were rather red, and giggled nervously. "Look at me, crying like a little schoolgirl. I'm so sorry, Harry, you've no idea how it's been. I've thought of you every day, you know."

Harry drew his hand back rather suddenly, guilt making it hard to keep looking at her. He couldn't bring himself to return the sentiment - to lie, a small part of him amended - so he sat up instead, wincing at a fresh sting of pain in his forehead

(_anger, foreign but his own, sharp and bitter and intense inside of him_)

that was so fierce, he momentarily forgot what they were talking about.

It was a frightening reminder that Voldemort was still furious, cutting through his guilt like a hot knife. He found himself wondering briefly why Voldemort hadn't attempted to enter his mind yet to try to discover his location. Perhaps he thought that Harry was still passed out?

"How long have I been here?" Harry asked, avoiding a response to Ginny's testament of her affection for him. He raised his fingers carefully to his hair and tried to press his cool fingers to his burning scar without drawing too much attention to it.

"Not more than a few minutes, I reckon," Ginny said. "Dad just got home."

She paused, examining his face, and a curious look came over her eyes as they darted up to the fringe across Harry's forehead.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" she said softly, and she reached a hand forward to touch it.

Something very strange happened then. Harry felt dizzy and hot all at once, unpleasant fire prickling outward from his scar, revulsion churning his stomach. He recoiled so violently that he didn't even have time to think about what he was doing.

"Don't touch me!" he snapped, his hand coming up to shield his scar,

(_it's not hers, it's mine, it's Tom's_)

burning a violent tattoo across his skin. He felt his face contort into the rage that was pounding through his veins, rage that was not his own.

Ginny visibly flinched, staring back at him with a mixture of shock and hurt in her eyes - telling emotions for a girl who had spent her life steeling herself against her brothers' antics. Guilt, poignant and overwhelming, washed over Harry then. _It's not her fault, _he told himself. _She's only trying to help_.

Harry took a very deep breath, trying to calm himself.

"I'm sorry," he said after a few moments, lowering his hand from his head, which was still pounding something nasty. "I don't know what came over me."

"It's fine," Ginny replied, although she sounded shaken. "He must be very angry." She paused, fear flickering briefly across her face, before she smothered it out valiantly. A true Gryffindor, this one.

"Yes," Harry said softly. "Furious."

When she next spoke, her words were very quiet. "He's going to come here, isn't he? He's going to try to find you." She lifted her chin, her lips pursing with determination. Once, Harry might have thought it was endearing, but now he could only think that she had no idea, no right to look at him with such certainty. "Well I won't let him get to you, Harry. He won't take you away from me again."

_Naive_, Harry thought before he could stop himself. She had no idea. Looking at her now, she seemed like a completely different person, worlds away from the Ginny he had admired at her brother's wedding many months ago. Her eyes were red around the edges, and beneath her honest determination there was suspicion and even a little fear. She looked fragile, delicate, not like the strong young woman he had once imagined her to be.

Looking at her now, Harry could only see the way her body would bend beneath Voldemort's wand, the tears that would stream down her face as he tortured her - and even as he was horrified by the images playing through his head, at the reaction he was having to Ginny's confidence in him, he couldn't help but feel anger in response to her careless arrogance.

She would never stand a chance.

There was a knock on the door, tearing Harry gratefully from his thoughts - but as the identity of their visitor became clear, Harry's gratitude evaporated like water on a hot day. Mr. Weasley stepped into the dim bedroom, not quite looking Harry in the eye. Rage blossomed in Harry's chest, and he was pleased to see that it belonged to no one but himself.

"You're awake, Harry," Mr. Weasley said with false cheerfulness, as though he hadn't been the one to knock Harry out in the first place. "How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful," Harry said flatly. Ginny looked back and forth between them, confused at the tension in the air.

"Good, good," Mr. Weasley said, wringing his hands distractedly, "because I'm afraid you don't have much time to rest. We must migrate to a safer location at once. Ginny, if you'll go and get your things together - "

But what would happen if Ginny gathered her things, Harry would never know. His scar chose that moment to split his skull into two pieces, a red-hot iron across his forehead, and with the pain came an image, burning vividly across his vision and melting the orange, dusty room around him until it took the form of another bedroom, his godfather's, in Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

"There's no one here, my lord," said a man in black, his face turned to the floor and masked by shadows. "The house is empty."

Harry stepped over to the bed, ran a hand over the blankets. He remembered the boy's face, twisted in pleasure as he touched himself, even as he was aware that the Dark Lord had been there in the back of his mind, watching. The child had fed off of his presence; it had not deterred him, but it had heightened his arousal, intensified it.

It had been the first time that Harry had ached to make the child writhe and cry out - not in pain, but in pleasure.

"You're certain?" Harry said, his voice cold and unnatural. "You've checked every room, every corner?"

"Yes, my lord," the man said, his face still turned downward out of respect. _Fear_, he heard the voice of his lover correct him, but this only made him angrier, angry that he did not have his child, his Horcrux, his Harry.

"Then we raid their homes," Harry said, his voice cold and clipped.

"Their homes, my lord?" the man repeated, his voice trembling. "But … but what if they are … uncooperative?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Then they will suffer."

The Death Eater nodded jerkily. "Yes, m'lord."

"We begin with those closest to him. The families of his companions," he said coldly. "Immediately," he added, when the Death Eater did not move quickly enough for him. The man scrambled to obey, leaving Harry alone in the room he had only seen through the eyes of the boy, taunting him in the night even as he grew more fascinated with him.

_My downfall_, Harry thought, sparing one last glance for the bed, and then he turned on his heel and Disapparated.

Harry came to in Ron's bed for the second time that day, gasping and shaking. Ginny's hands were on his back, rubbing slow, soothing circles. Mr. Weasley stood by the doorway, looking pale as a ghost.

_They will suffer_. Three words, echoing in his head, as final as a death sentence.

"You need to leave," Harry choked out, his voice hoarse. "_Now_."

"Well, that's what I was saying to begin with," Mr. Weasley said, sounding a little affronted and still wringing his hands. "Now, if you'll get your things - "

"You don't have _time _to get your things," Harry interrupted, forcing himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed, despite the pounding in his scar. "You've got to leave, he's coming, he'll be here at any moment - "

There was a tremendous crash from downstairs, and someone screamed.

Any color left in Mr. Weasley's face vanished entirely. Heart pounding, Harry pushed himself off of the bed, throwing Ginny's hands off of him, and strode to the door.

"No," Mr. Weasley said, stepping in front of him and blocking his way. "It is imperative that you remain with us, Harry - your life is absolutely precious - "

"Get out of my way," Harry said darkly, his anger rushing back to him in an instant, and went to push the man aside.

"_No,_" Mr. Weasley insisted, grabbing hold of Harry's shoulders even as there was another crash downstairs, followed by the shattering of glass. Bellatrix Lestrange's hysterical laughter sounded from outside the window. Harry attempted to wrench himself out of Mr. Weasley's grip, but the man was stronger than Harry anticipated. "Harry, listen to some sense for a moment - it's suicide, You-Know-Who does not know how to be merciful - "

"_He doesn't want to kill me!" _Harry yelled, struggling, but Mr. Weasley was holding both of his arms now, fingers digging into the meaty flesh of his upper arms. "Did you see us, we were baking a goddamn _cake_! Did we look like we'd been injured? Tortured?"

"Harry, my boy, I'm sure there will be plenty of time to discuss You-Know-Who's reasons for keeping you alive - " Mr. Weasley began, but then another scream, a woman's, came from downstairs, and his voice stopped in his throat.

"_Mum!_" Ginny cried out from behind them, and before either of them could stop her she had flown past them through the open door.

Horror bubbled in Harry's stomach._ She would never stand a chance_.

"Now look what you've done!" Harry snarled, and, taking full advantage of Mr. Weasley's surprise, he pulled himself free from the man's slackened grip. Heart pounding furiously, Harry stumbled out onto the landing, looking around for any sign of Ginny, or the twins, or anyone for that matter.

The house was empty.

Swearing, Harry sprinted down the stairs, taking them two at a time, his scar aching painfully in his forehead. Mrs. Weasley gave another weak, distant shout, and Harry could hear now that she was outside, that all of the commotion had been coming from the yard.

His scar gave a jolt of pain so intense that it was almost nauseating. Harry had to pause for a second to catch his breath as wave after wave of fire washed over him, from his scar to his stomach to his knees, accompanied by one brief, unmistakable image.

Long red hair, determined bright brown eyes, a trademark, confident glare - _Ginny_.

Harry swore again, and he doubled his pace, hand sliding across the banister so quickly that it burned his palm. He almost tripped when he arrived on the first floor, and his eyes widened in horror as he took in the broken windows, the toppled chairs, drops of blood trailing to the door.

And then - Voldemort's voice, loud and booming and cold, making the hair stand up on the back of Harry's neck, emanated from every particle of air in the room, from the walls of the house itself:

"_You cannot conceal him from me!"_

Taking in a ragged breath to try to balance out the pain in his scar, Harry steeled himself and staggered toward the door, which had been left half-open, and out into the blinding daylight.

It was a scene that could have been plucked from Harry's nightmares. A roaring wall of fire, twenty feet high, surrounded the Burrow. A small group of Death Eaters, Bellatrix among them, were trading curses on the side of the house with Fred, George, and Mrs. Weasley, a blur of colors and shouts and movement. Ron and Hermione were huddled near a broken window, useless without their wands. They didn't seem to notice Harry's arrival, however - their eyes were fixed with horror in the other direction, away from the Death Eaters and the Weasleys.

Harry's gaze was first drawn to Voldemort. The man standing before him was not the man that had taken Harry to bed and touched him with tenderness and care - rather, he was the one who had haunted Harry's sleep for many months, the one who killed and tortured and ruined lives. His eyes were alight with a loathing that Harry hadn't seen there in a very long time, a loathing that Harry had forgotten that the man was capable of. His mouth was curled into an awful, sinister snarl, his wand held high in the air, and Harry was reminded of how powerful this man was, of the cruelties that he had committed, simply by this one, brief moment.

Voldemort didn't seem to notice that Harry had arrived, either - rather, he was very focused, holding his wand high and steady.

There was a choked, feeble cry, and Harry's gaze was torn from the terrifying image of the Dark Lord to the broken body on the ground in front of him, twisted at strange, unnatural angles and jerking about in agony. Harry realized with a jolt that it was Ginny, thrashing about on the ground under the Cruciatus, and his stomach seemed to drop from his body with dread.

"Where is he, you stupid girl?" Voldemort hissed. He jerked his wand, and Ginny cried out in pain. "Tell me where he is!"

Ginny's body twisted in the other direction, and then she was on her hands and knees, panting and shaking. "I'll never tell you," she rasped, and then started to crawl toward her wand, which was lying abandoned in the grass. "You won't take him away from me again!"

Voldemort snarled and slashed his wand through the air again; Ginny's body flew backwards from the wand with a loud cry. "From you? Harry Potter is mine, you useless, ignorant little tramp!"

"He will never be yours!" she spat back, but her trembling body betrayed the strength and passion in her voice. Harry noticed that there was blood running down her cheek, and his heart twisted painfully in his ribcage. "And I won't let you get to him! I love him, and I will protect him until the day that I die!"

She screamed, then, a terrible, heart-wrenching sound that went straight to Harry's chest. Voldemort's face had twisted into unprecedented fury, and he held the wand higher, pointed directly at Ginny's writhing body. "Let's see how far love gets you, stupid child!" he taunted her, snarling over her screams. "Where is the one you love now? Why hasn't he saved you?"

It was at that moment that Harry finally found his ability to speak, to move again.

"Stop it!" he cried, his voice hoarse with anger. He stumbled forward, fingers clenching and digging sporadically into his palms. "_Stop!_"

The pain in his scar subsided as suddenly as it had come on, and all motion seemed to stop around them. Voldemort's wand faltered in the air, and he turned his head, eyes suddenly wide and naked as they focused on Harry. Ginny stopped writhing with a shuddering cry, and Harry ran to her, sparing only a horrified glare for Voldemort as he knelt at her side, touching her arm.

"Are you alright?" Harry murmured to her, his heart breaking at the way she sobbed and shook. He remembered the devotion with which she had touched him, the way she had tried to comfort him only a few minutes ago, and he suddenly hated himself for the anger he had felt toward her. He may not be able to love her, but he recognized that she would do anything for him, even throw herself in front of the Dark Lord himself if it meant that Harry would remain safe. How could he have been angry with her?

She answered him only with a broken, shuddering sob.

"Harry." Voldemort's voice was soft, dangerous. That one word held a question, a warning, a plea. It twisted into his heart like knife, but Harry ignored his feelings, his pain, in favor of the anger and betrayal welling up inside of him.

"How could you do this?" He turned his face upward to look at Voldemort, standing tall and unharmed with the blood of Harry's friends staining the grass under his feet, flames from hell licking the sky behind him. "You said that you wouldn't harm them. You - you promised," and his voice broke a little on this word, trembling. "How could you?"

"Did you hear that?" Bellatrix cackled from Harry's left; Harry saw that they had stopped duelling to watch the exchange. "The Dark Lord _promised_ Potter that he wouldn't hurt his ickle friends. Did he pinky-swear, Potter? You know that it doesn't count otherwise."

"Harry!" Mr. Weasley yelled from the doorway behind him. "Harry, come inside this instant!"

Harry ignored both of them; he only had eyes for Voldemort. The Dark Lord took a few slow steps forward to where Harry knelt beside Ginny, uncertainty and danger lurking in the scarlet pools of his eyes, flickering with the reflection of the fire around them. Harry found for the first time in many months that he was scared, really and truly - that Voldemort _frightened _him.

"I had reason to believe that they took you from me unwillingly," Voldemort said softly, standing only a few feet away now. Harry remembered with a stab in his chest the half-finished cake, the overturned chair, the birthday that would never be celebrated. Voldemort narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Unless, of course, you went of your own volition."

Ginny gave a shuddering, pained sob; Harry's hand shot out to rub her back reflexively.

"I tried," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper as he rubbed at her back, "I tried, but they forced me. They thought you were hurting us - and why wouldn't they!" His voice had raised to a hoarse shout without his permission, pain and anger coloring his words as he gestured around the Burrow. "Look at this, look at what you've done!"

"She dared to question my authority," Voldemort hissed. He looked with great disgust at the trembling girl in Harry's arms. "She claimed that she … _loves _you."

"I do!" Ginny choked out, trying and failing to push herself to her knees. Her face was dirty with dried blood, and her eyes were full of anger and pain as she turned them to look up at Harry and then back to Voldemort again. "I do, you monster. And I'll bet you can't stand it. T-Tom told me that you don't believe in - in love. Well, here it is, as real as it's ever going to get. I love Harry, and he loves me. Don't you, Harry?"

And the first hint of uncertainty crept into her voice as she looked back at Harry, eyes swimming with tears.

"Oh, yes, Harry," Voldemort whispered, cold, calm fury simmering behind his words. "Let's hear you tell her. You _love _her, don't you, Harry? It's why you left."

Harry felt the hard stares of Ron and Hermione, of Ginny's parents, of the Death Eaters, all pressing in on his back as he knelt over the trembling, helpless girl, but he only could see the eyes of Lord Voldemort, cruel and cold and probing. Eyes that had seen him naked, trembling, laughing, begging, loving, crying, fucking, fighting. Eyes that could inspire a hundred thousand emotions in the space of a heartbeat.

Harry's mouth went very dry, and even as his jaw worked soundlessly, he couldn't think of words to say.

"Harry," Ginny whispered from below him, and as Harry glanced downward, he saw realization dawning in her eyes. Tears began to spill over her eyelashes, and before Harry could process what was happening, her hands had clasped around the back of his neck and she was pulling herself upward. Confusion, revulsion, and horror all rolled over him in quick succession, and then she was pressing her lips against his own, lips that were too full, too soft, too warm.

Pain, sudden and overwhelming, ripped through Harry's scar. Harry tried to pull away to scream, to hold his forehead, but Ginny's grip was too firm against him, her lips pressed too hard, and Harry couldn't get away, only managing a horrible, agonized moan against her mouth. His head was splitting open, straight down the middle, he was sure of it - and all he could see was fire, and fury, and the image of Ginny against him, Harry's arms around her.

_She will have to die, too, you know_, Voldemort had said, and this thought rushed through his mind again, not entirely his own.

There was a flash of light, and a sound like someone slicing a butcher knife through a cut of meat, and then Ginny was no longer moving against him.

"NO!" Ron screamed behind him, a bellow that sounded quite like that of an injured animal. Ginny's lips went very still. The splitting pain in Harry's forehead was replaced by a dull sense of satisfaction.

Harry lowered her face in his hands, not quite processing the way her arms flopped to her sides, the glassy look in her brown eyes, usually so full of life and spunk.

"Ginny?" he said quietly, not believing.

There was movement in front of him, and then Harry was wrenched abruptly to his feet, Ginny's limp body falling from his arms. Harry saw that there was blood dripping down her throat, a slice of her skin flapping as she fell.

And then Voldemort was grabbing his face with his fingers, rage bubbling beneath his eyes.

"No one else will touch you," the Dark Lord hissed, fingers tightening painfully in the flesh of Harry's cheeks. "You belong to _me_."

_She's dead_, Harry thought, his brain finally catching up to the way that her skin had felt against his fingers, the blood that was running down her throat. _He killed her_.

"Get off of me," Harry demanded, his voice hollow. His hands came forward to grasp Voldemort's robes, and then he shoved the man away from him, hard. Voldemort let him in his surprise, shock at Harry's defiance flickering across his face.

"_Ginny_," Ron bellowed, running forward. The Death Eaters were standing on the outskirts of the yard by the roaring wall of fire, waiting for Voldemort to give them instructions.

"Ron, get back here," Mr. Weasley called from the house, his voice choked with emotion. "Harry - Harry, you too."

Voldemort took a step forward, as if to grab Harry again, but the boy stumbled backward, nearly stepping on Ginny's bleeding body. "Get away from me," he said softly, and then, louder this time, "Don't touch me!"

"You cannot escape me, Harry," said Voldemort, his eyes flashing crazily with the reflection of the flames, of the blood that had been spilled on Harry's behalf. "Our destinies are intertwined."

"Watch me," Harry spat, and turned on his heel to Ginny's body. He gathered her up in his arms, her body feeling much too light as he held her, all the while expecting the force of a spell, the clasp of Voldemort's hand on his shoulder. But there was only the painful stinging in his scar coupled with the hurt and betrayal churning in his stomach.

"Do not walk away from me, Potter!" The use of Harry's surname stung more than any hex could, but Harry only squeezed his eyes shut and continued to make the long, painful walk back toward the house, Ginny's arms and legs swaying where he couldn't hold her. He hated this, hated walking away from Voldemort, from Tom. But he couldn't turn his back on his friends as Voldemort tortured and killed them, betraying Harry with his empty promises.

"My lord!" Bellatrix cried gleefully as Harry arrived at the doorway, where the Weasleys and Hermione were waiting for him with pale, horrified faces. "My lord, he's getting away! Let me teach him, _please_, let me teach him what happens when - "

"Silence, Bella," Voldemort hissed, cutting her off abruptly. "Let Potter make his choice."

"You've already made it for me, thanks," Harry said in strangled voice. He didn't turn around as he spoke, willing the tears in his eyes away. He hoisted Ginny closer to his body as Mr. Weasley held out a ragged sneaker, and he knew all at once what he was expected to do.

He reflected briefly on how strange it was, that you could wake up naked and warm next to someone in the morning and then watch them ruin your life that very same evening.

And then his hand firmly grasped the heel of the shoe, and there was a sharp jerking behind his navel, and Harry was sucked into nothingness.

* * *

><p>She was alive.<p>

That was the most important part, and Harry clung to it like a life raft. Andromeda Tonks had been able to heal her - had, in fact, been waiting for them with a variety of healing supplies, having expected Harry and his friends to return from Voldemort's captivity in poor condition. But as Harry watched Ginny's chest rise in fall in quick, painful gasps, he found himself wishing that it truly had been he in her place instead, struggling to breathe and stay alive.

The Weasley family was gathered around Ginny where she lay on the couch in the Tonks' sitting room, a solemn silence weighing the room that was broken only by Ginny's shallow gasps. Ron had given Harry a dark, seething look when they had arrived, and had not bothered to pay him any attention since. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were kneeling beside Ginny, touching her face, whispering to each other. A very pregnant Tonks was standing quietly in the doorway, speaking in a low voice with Hermione, who looked paler than Harry had ever seen her.

Giving one last glance to the broken family by the sofa, Harry walked over to Hermione and Tonks. He couldn't stand looking at Ginny any longer; he thought his heart might burst if he kept thinking about what had happened.

_My fault, my fault, my fault_, Harry thought, a painful mantra. He couldn't quite bring himself to look Hermione in the eye.

"She's going to be alright, Harry," Hermione said soothingly, but he could tell from her voice that she wasn't certain.

"My mum knows how to patch people up nice and good," Tonks added reassuringly. She was sporting black hair today, straight and limp, and her eyes were very dark. "Don't you worry on it."

Harry noticed for the first time as he looked up at her that Tonks looked very tired, more tired than Harry had ever seen her. Her eyes were red, like Ginny's had been, as though she had just finished crying. He realized that something seemed to be missing in her, that something was not quite right.

"Thanks, Tonks," Harry said softly. He looked back at where Ginny was lying unconscious on the couch, Mrs. Weasley whimpering as she stroked her hair out of her face. He was seized by the overwhelming urge to change the subject. "When should the baby be here?" he asked, hating the edge of desperation in his voice.

"Only a few weeks left to go," Tonks said with false cheerfulness, and gave a shallow smile. "Perfectly healthy, as far as we can tell, too. We're … we're very excited."

Perhaps it was the way that her voice broke on the word "we," or the way that she averted her eyes immediately afterward, but it suddenly occurred to Harry what exactly was missing here. He frowned and looked around the room, eyes flicking from face to face, confirming what he had already realized. When he looked back at Tonks, he saw that she had been watching him, her face screwed up in pain, and she excused herself hastily with tears in her eyes.

When Tonks was sufficiently out of earshot, Harry turned immediately to Hermione, dread building inside of him. "Where is - "

"Dead," Hermione answered quietly before Harry could finish the question, and the word hit Harry like a punch in the stomach. "Mrs. Weasley was telling us. He was part of the raid on Malfoy Manor … I suppose he was taken captive. Voldemort had his body deposited on Tonks' doorstep. She's still really torn up about it."

"Dead," Harry repeated dully, not quite hearing himself speak. His insides felt curiously cold and hollow. It was too much for him to process, too much for him to bear. First Ginny was nearly killed, and then … then Lupin. Poor Lupin, and poor, poor Tonks. Harry thought of their unborn child, a child that would never know its father, and it suddenly became very hard for Harry to breathe.

Andromeda Tonks chose that moment to walk over, her face, which looked so much like that of her sister Bellatrix's, softened into a kind, sympathetic expression that looked unnatural on the features of a Black. "You look like you could use some rest, Harry," the woman said softly, and Harry found himself infinitely grateful for her presence at that moment.

"Yes," Harry said, and his voice was little more than a whisper, laden with grief.

"Come; I have a bedroom made up for you just up the stairs here," she said, pressing a hand gently to his arm. Hermione gave Harry an understanding nod and squeezed his hand, and then Harry was being ushered up the stairs by Mrs. Tonks, not quite processing his surroundings, the knowledge of Lupin's death still heavy on his conscience.

A moment later, he was alone on a twin bed in a dimly lit guest room, his head and heart aching.

His head was a mess of thoughts, images, feelings, each one stronger and more painful than the last. Most of all, he thought about how Voldemort had not attempted to penetrate his mind since Harry had escaped yet again. He couldn't quite work out if this was good or not. He found himself desperate to know what the man was thinking. Did he regret what he had done? Was he upset that he had hurt Harry?

_I don't want you to hurt anymore, Harry_, Voldemort had said, and hardly a day later he had tried to murder one of Harry's closest friends as she lay in his arms. _I've caused you enough pain in your life_.

Lies, all of it. Perhaps this was all his life would be while Voldemort still existed in it - full of pain and hurt and false promises.

It was a long time before he fell asleep, lulled into the darkness by the silent, steady stream of tears running down his cheeks.

* * *

><p>He finds himself on a cliff, a blanket of stars and darkness overhead.<p>

For a while, he is content to simply lie there, eyes closed as the cool breeze and the tickling grasses wash over him. His breathing is slow, calm, savoring the salty air on the tip of his tongue. The steady crashing of the waves against the side of the cliff calms him, and for a very long time, he simply listens to the song of the sea, feeling at peace with the world around him.

He was upset, once, in another world, but he cannot remember why. The sea-salt, the cool evening breeze, the many thousands of stars twinkling down at him from the sky - they carry his worries away like a flower petal on the summer wind.

But there is a stirring in his heart. There is movement from somewhere nearby, and he realizes that he is no longer alone.

Harry sits up slowly, languidly, reluctant to abandon his moment of tranquility. When he sees that sitting up does not dispel the calm enveloping him, he raises himself a little higher and looks around. At first, he thinks that there is no one there, that it was simply a trick of the breeze and the starlight, and he almost lowers himself back to the grass to continue basking in the peace that threads this secret place together.

And then he sees him, at the edge of the cliff, so still that he is nearly a part of the cliff itself.

Harry knows that he should be disturbed by his presence. He has something to do with Harry's pain, so far detached from him in that other universe. But like everything else here, the shape of the man's back against the night sky only brings him calm. Everything is so calm. Why should he be disturbed if he cannot even remember?

Harry watches the man for a little while, but he does not move, simply stands, looking out over the sea. Harry is overwhelmed with curiosity. What could be so interesting about the sea? He wonders if he shouldn't disturb the man; he looks just as peaceful as Harry, and Harry is afraid that speaking will break the peace, that it will invite all of the pain and horror from the other world to invade this one.

But in the end, he gives in to the pulling at his heartstrings, drawing him like a magnet to the man on the edge of the cliff. Giving in is all he seems to know how to do anymore, as natural as breathing and crying and smiling.

Harry approaches him silently, without fear or hesitation. He knows that the man senses him there, but he does not turn around, is not even remotely bothered by Harry's advance. This encourages Harry, and he finds himself standing beside the man a moment later, looking out over the water as well.

Many moments pass, standing side-by-side and looking over the swelling ocean, before Harry speaks.

"Why are you here?"

"I could ask the same of you," Voldemort replies with nonchalance, detachment. His eyes do not leave the sea, and they seem to reflect the deep blues and greys of the ocean. "This is my dream, after all."

"Your dream?" Harry repeats, and then nods. It makes sense, that this is a dream, but it saddens him. Tranquility such as this cannot exist in the real world. He should have known.

"So why are you here?" Voldemort asks after a moment, still not looking at Harry.

Harry thinks about this for a few moments, and then says, as if it's the most natural answer in the world, "I suppose you called me here."

"You wouldn't be here if you didn't want to be, Harry," Voldemort responds. "That's how these things work."

Harry frowns, trying to think about this. It makes sense as well - he cannot imagine anywhere else he would rather be at this moment than on the edge of this beautiful cliff with this beautiful man whose heart seems to reach out to him with a longing so strong it is nearly impossible. "So you did call me, then?"

Voldemort does not respond to this question. Instead, his grey eyes flicker to the grass, to the sky, but never to Harry's face. "I spent many evenings as a child here," he says softly, so softly Harry isn't even sure if he's talking to him. "I would sneak out of the orphanage at night and dream of flying off of this cliff."

At first, this seems like a strange thought to Harry. He had certainly never imagined himself flying anywhere, except for, perhaps, on a broomstick. But as he gazes out into the ocean, stretching endless and bottomless before him, he supposes that he can understand this urge to leap off of the cliff, to soar over the waves like a bird. He wonders what it would feel like.

The answer comes to him almost immediately - like freedom, like happiness in its purest, most tangible form.

"It's peaceful here," Harry says, and he offers Voldemort a smile. "I would have liked to come here too when I was hurt or upset. I can understand why you liked it."

Voldemort turns to look at him for the first time, then, and there is such pain, such sorrow in his silver-red eyes that Harry nearly takes a step backward in surprise. He had almost forgotten what sorrow felt like, but there it is, written so clearly in Voldemort's gaze that Harry needs only to stare into his eyes to remember how painful it can be to hurt.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Harry says softly, and takes a hesitant step forward. "Please don't be upset. I'm sorry."

"Stop," Voldemort says, because this was clearly not the right thing to say. "You foolish child, just be quiet. You will suffocate in your own kindness eventually, do you know that?"

Harry frowns. Well, wasn't that a strange thing to say! "Kindness isn't suffocating," he says thoughtfully. "Anger is suffocating. You can never have too much kindness."

Voldemort sighs. "I'm afraid you'll feel differently when you awaken, child," he says softly.

"And I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," Harry replies cheerfully, eager to extract the sorrow from the man's eyes, red and silver, blood and snow. He pauses, watches the Dark Lord as the man stares at the ground, his expression unreadable. Harry is seized by the sudden urge to be touching the other man, and he says so immediately. "I would rather like for you to hold me."

Amusement touches the sorrow in Voldemort's eyes, and he looks like he's trying to fight off a smile. "Demanding, aren't we? You should remember that this is my dream, Harry."

Harry wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn't. Instead, he walks directly in front of the Dark Lord and leans his body back against him, his head falling easily into the crook of Voldemort's neck. "See?" Harry says, ignoring Voldemort's initial protests. He takes the man's wrists and pulls them in front of him, folding them around his body. "Like this."

They stand there in silence for a long time like this, Harry leaning back against the man's sturdy chest, Voldemort relaxing into the embrace behind him. They fit together perfectly, their bodies melding together, front-to-back, and Harry can't help but think that they're two pieces of the same puzzle. _Completion_. The breeze is cool, playing with Harry's hair and lifting it gently from the scar on his forehead. A few times, he thinks that he feels Voldemort's lips in his hair, against his ear, but the touches are so soft and fleeting that Harry convinces himself that it was only the kiss of the breeze playing tricks on him.

They are there for so long that Harry's eyes fall shut, his breathing evens out, and he almost thinks that he's falling asleep again when he feels a whisper against his ear, Voldemort's voice low and uncertain.

"Do you love her?"

It takes Harry a few moments to remember to whom Voldemort is referring. When he does, he smiles slowly, his eyes opening to the night. "Of course I do."

He feels Voldemort stiffen against him, arms loosening around his chest, and he immediately realizes the misunderstanding. "Oh - oh, no, not like that," Harry says, and laughs, a gentle, sincere sound. "Urgh. She's like my sister. She always has been. I love her, but not _that _way."

Voldemort relaxes a little at this, but Harry still turns around so that they are face-to-face, caught up with the need to reassure him. Voldemort seems taken by surprise when Harry whirls around to face him, and the look in his eyes is absolutely raw and naked. He cannot look away.

Harry stands on his tip-toes and runs his hands over the man's face. Voldemort's skin is smooth and creamy everywhere, even all across the top of his head, and Harry smiles at the feeling of it, his fingers coming around to hold the back of the man's neck.

"I don't love her like that," he repeats quietly, a promise. He leans forward so that their lips are brushing, so that his vision is consumed by the sea of ruby and silver smoke that swirls in Voldemort's eyes. "Only you, Tom."

The words are nearly lost in the kiss that he presses against the man's mouth. He doesn't even realize exactly what he's just admitted - only that Voldemort's arms are now around him and he is kissing Harry back like he is the most tender, precious treasure in the middle of the widest ocean.

Harry's eyes flutter closed, and he knows that it is time to go back to reality, to the world that is full of pain and sorrow. He feels the Dark Lord dissolving beneath his touch, pieces of him flying away into the night, but Harry is still enveloped in calm, peaceful and all-consuming.

_Only you, Tom_. The words echo in his head, a mantra. Harry hopes that he heard.

And Voldemort's voice follows him into the darkness, an answer, or perhaps just a memory of things past: _I'm afraid you'll feel differently when you awaken._

* * *

><p>Harry opened his eyes to the taste of sea-salt and starlight on his tongue. He lay in the darkness for a few minutes, trying to remember what it was that had put that taste there, but he couldn't quite recall. He eventually gave up, closed his eyes, and tried to forget the pain in his chest from the events of the day.<p>

When he fell into sleep again, he dreamt only of falling through a starry sky, his body light and free, but always wondering when the ground would finally come into sight through the clouds below him.


	25. IV:6

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort, angst

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

A/N: Sorry for the wait on this one everybody :( It's been one hell of a week, and unfortunately finals come before fanfiction. I'm officially done with the semester, though, so I should be updating a lot more often again! Thank you so much for your patience.

* * *

><p>6.<p>

Ginny still had not awoken the next morning.

She looked like a sleeping angel, pale and delicate in her white blankets. They had brought her to a bedroom on the second floor, one with a big bay window to let the sun in, but the New Year was cloudy, and there was not a ray of sunlight to be seen in the sky.

Her breathing had evened out, a good sign, and the color had begun to come back into her cheeks. There was a ragged, faded line across her throat, a soft pink color that stretched about six inches across. Mrs. Tonks said she wasn't sure if it'd ever heal entirely and apologized quietly for her inability to make the marking disappear, but the unspoken alternative weighing on the back of everyone's minds did not leave any room for resentment.

"Thank you," Mrs. Weasley said again and again, very softly. "Thank you." It was all that Harry had heard her say since he'd seen her yelling at her husband yesterday.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione ate breakfast in silence that morning, the only noise their spoons clunking dully against their bowls. Breakfast meant porridge, clumsily prepared by Tonks, who had slopped half the contents of the pot onto the kitchen floor on her way to the table.

Nobody could find the heart to tease her about it.

Harry gave up after only a few bland spoonfuls, his stomach churning restlessly as he dwelt on the traumatic events of the past twenty-four hours. Hermione and Ron finished quickly as well, and for a while, they simply sat there in heavy, uncomfortable silence until Hermione finally spoke.

"Are you feeling alright, Harry?" Her voice was quiet and scared. Harry glanced up and got a good look at her for the first time since they had left the cottage the day before. She didn't look like she had quite recovered from the attack yesterday; her eyes were a little puffy, as though she hadn't slept very well, and her gaze was guarded and reserved.

Harry remembered briefly that he had been so angry with her yesterday for tearing him away from Voldemort after they'd made so much progress together. But his mind kept wandering

(_to the soft scar snaking around Ginny's neck, to the fatherless swell in Tonks' belly, to Lupin storming out of Grimmauld Place before giving his life for Harry's own_)

to all of the monstrosities that had occurred from either Voldemort's word or his wand, and in place of where his anger should be, there was only a dull, throbbing ache.

"Pardon?" Ron's voice pulled Harry from his thoughts. It was the first time that Ron had spoken all morning - since they'd left the cottage yesterday, as a matter of fact. From the way that he was glowering at Hermione, though, Harry wished that he hadn't. A ball of dread began to knot in Harry's stomach when he recognized the hard, cold bitterness in Ron's eyes. This wasn't going to end well.

Hermione, ever perceptive, looked just as frightened as Harry felt. "I just asked Harry if he was - "

"I thought that's what you said," Ron cut her off nastily before she could finish. "Sorry, I just found it a little strange that you were asking _Harry _if hewas alright, when it's my sister that's barely breathing in the room next-door."

"Ron," Hermione began, sounding injured, but Ron had already shoved his chair away from the table noisily, upsetting Harry's remaining porridge over the side of his bowl.

"Especially since it's Harry's new best mate that put her there!" Ron went on, his voice shaking with anger. "Nice bloke, isn't he, the Dark Lord? Don't know why I didn't listen to Harry about it before."

"Ronald," Hermione said, a little more firmly, but Ron only threw a nasty glare at the two of them before he stalked out of the kitchen, mumbling under his breath.

Harry's lungs constricted with a mixture of grief and guilt, making it hard for him to breathe. He saw Hermione grab a napkin to clean the porridge, but he got there first, mopping up the bit that had sloshed over the side. "It's fine, Hermione," he said, trying to push her hand away.

"No, it's not," she said tearfully. "Nothing's fine. I'm so sorry, Harry."

Harry shook his head and found that he couldn't bring himself to look at her. He hated the emotion heaving in his gut. When had he grown to despise it so much? "It's not your fault."

"It is my fault," she insisted stubbornly, firmly grabbing his hand, which had been making slow sweeps across the table with a handkerchief. "I shouldn't have forced you. I should have stopped them. I should have done something, anything. I just - I didn't know what to do. It was a perfectly horrible situation. What was I supposed to do?"

"It's not your fault," Harry said again, making himself meet her eyes. His heart twinged at the pain he saw there. "They would have forced us either way."

There was relief in her eyes, but Harry could still see that she felt badly about it. "It's for the best, Harry," she said after a moment, squeezing his hand and lowering her voice. "I wish things had gone differently, but to be perfectly honest, I don't think it was healthy for you. I was so afraid that he was … that you were … being taken advantage of."

Harry closed his eyes. He felt a little nauseous. "I wasn't."

"That's all he does," Hermione added quietly, not hearing him. "He uses people. He's a murderer. It would have destroyed you."

"Yeah," Harry said. The words sounded empty, hollow. "That's all he does."

Hermione released his fingers and cleaned the rest of the mess up herself. Harry, on the other hand, felt suddenly dizzy and sick with the need for fresh air. Excusing himself, Harry fled the kitchen and headed straight for the front door, not sparing a glance for the huddle of adults speaking in hushed voices in the sitting room.

Harry burst out into the chilly, sunless January morning. He knew he couldn't wander far before he'd leave the number of protective wards that were no doubt encasing the house, but he needed to be alone. He needed to forget, to lose himself somewhere that didn't smell like guilt and pain and Ginny's blood.

But in the snow, he only saw Voldemort, walking slowly ahead of him through a French forest, snowflakes on his back. In the gray, cloudy sky, he only saw the color of Tom Riddle's eyes.

So Harry closed his own eyes, and he leaned against the door of the house, and he breathed. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Remembering that Voldemort had told him once that he could find calm in the steady control of his breaths, Harry thought on nothing else but the cool air passing through his nose, the way his lungs expanded and then slowly deflated again.

He found that the air tasted of ocean and moonlight, strange smells for a January morning.

Harry's eyes flew open, and he frowned. But when he inhaled again, there was only the smell of snow, and the stink of grief that seemed to have seeped into the walls of the house itself in Lupin's absence, and after a moment, Harry had convinced himself that it hadn't even been there at all.

* * *

><p>Voldemort had never liked Lucius. The man was a coward, and an incompetent one at that. After Lucius had failed two years ago to bring his master back the prophecy - and the Potter boy, for that matter<p>

(_and how strange it was, that he had thought of his Harry this way, once_)

- Voldemort had made sure to demonstrate just how far his dislike of the man extended. Lucius, his wife, and his snivelling son had suffered that summer, suffered so that they might never fail him again.

But it had backfired. Draco had allowed Dumbledore's drones entrance into his own home. The child had paid with his life, of course, but it hadn't daunted him, the fool. Voldemort hadn't even been able to inspire a lick of fear in the boy's eyes before he'd died. In the end, it was just another body, just another meaningless death that had done little to advance his cause. In the end, it hadn't even protected Harry from the hands of those that would use him like a weapon instead of a child, a human, a lover. Harry was no longer even willing to return to him, and now Lucius stood here swaying slightly as a result, looking vacant and even more useless than he had been before his idiot son had gone and angered the most powerful wizard of the age.

Everything had backfired, all of it, and for once, Voldemort was at a loss for how to get his way.

"Do you recall, Lucius, the morning that Draco disobeyed me?"

Lucius flinched visibly, and Voldemort saw with some satisfaction that there was hatred in his empty gaze now. The name of his son seemed to be all that provoked a reaction from this man anymore. Here was something that Voldemort could still succeed with - making his followers flinch.

"Yes, my lord."

Voldemort indulged in a smirk. The Dark Lord slowly raised himself from the magnificent chair at the end of the long, empty, table, and his footsteps echoed in the large empty room where they held their meetings as he leisurely made his way across the room toward his prey.

"Such tension," Voldemort admonished softly, approaching the Malfoy where he stood, rigid and tense, near the closed door. "Are you truly still so disturbed by the boy's fate, Lucius? He greatly dishonored you. You ought to be ashamed."

Although Lucius remained stock-still, Voldemort could see that there was a trembling beneath his skin, a trembling of fury and hatred and rage with which the Dark Lord himself was quite familiar. But Lucius wouldn't act on it. Ever the incompetent coward, Lucius was forever dictated by his fear.

"I … I _am_ ashamed, my lord." Lucius' words fell flat and empty, despite that all-consuming hatred that Voldemort knew was burning him up from the inside. Voldemort could smell it like a stink, his every fear and anger, like a snake and a mouse, and the Dark Lord circled him, slowly, thrilling in the play of the man's emotions.

"I wonder, Lucius," Voldemort whispered, stopping right behind him, "if all of that loathing is for me, or for yourself?"

Lucius shuddered, and he kept his head bowed, his eyes averted. The shame that rolled off of him gave Voldemort all the answer that he needed, and he found it pathetic. Even in his son's death, even in his own careful humiliation, Lucius could conjure nothing but fear for his child's murderer. Not like Harry, who was a storm cloud of extreme emotions, ever-changing with every shift of the wind, every brush of Voldemort's fingers, a fascinating, unpredictable puzzle.

For instance - how could he have known that the death of the wench would have affected Harry so? She had dared to lay her fingers on his Harry, and she had paid accordingly, and the boy had actually walked away from him because of it!

_He will return_, Voldemort told himself. A mantra that had been on constant repeat since Harry had turned his back on him the day before. _He will return_. Because the alternative gave rise to feelings that Voldemort had never been forced to face before. Because the thought of an empty bed, of a life without Harry, smiling and willing and his, was nearly more terrifying than the thought of death itself.

Shaking himself, Voldemort tried to focus on Lucius, who was practically trembling in his boots with fear. Voldemort pushed thoughts of the possibility of a Harry-less life out of his mind, and concentrated instead on his disgust for Malfoy, the coward that would lick Voldemort's shoes even as he threw a Killing Curse at his feet.

"Forgive me, my lord," Lucius had begun to stammer, but Voldemort hissed, cutting him off.

"Spare me your apologies," Voldemort snarled. "I did not summon you to mope about your dead traitor of a whelp. Give me your arm."

The Malfoy man winced again, but he held his tongue and extended his left arm obediently. Voldemort yanked the man's sleeve up his forearm, exposing the mark that tied his closest and his most precious followers to him. He had briefly considered whether he should mark Harry when the boy was back in his hands - because _he will return_ - so that his Horcrux would never escape him untraced again. But then Voldemort had thought of the scar on the boy's forehead, and the piece of his soul trapped in Harry's body, and decided that Harry might not appreciate yet another blemish on his body.

No, there were other ways to keep Harry by his side in the future.

Voldemort produced his wand from his robes and, ignoring the shiver of dread that rippled through Lucius' body, thrust his wand tip into the mouth of the skull, digging it harshly into the skin. The blond man's knees buckled a little in pain, but Voldemort grabbed his wrist, holding his forearm still.

"_Tomorrow morning_," he hissed at the inky snake that writhed across Lucius' veins, "_Malfoy manor._"

Voldemort released the man's wrist abruptly, withdrawing his wand, and Lucius stumbled backward, his fingers immediately finding the mark that was surely burning against his skin. A painful call to arms, to remind his followers of his power - a rather sadistic idea of which Voldemort was still very proud.

"Bring me Severus," the Dark Lord said, giving the pathetic man one last withering glare. The Malfoy man nodded jerkily, his head still bowed and his fingers rubbing soothingly across the scar on his arm that made him Voldemort's. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Lucius."

"Yes, my lord," the blond whispered, his voice shaking. He sounded as though he didn't know which statement he was responding to. As the door closed, signalling Lucius' exit, Voldemort decided that perhaps it had applied to both.

Unfamiliar sadness, sharp and poignant, burst open in Voldemort's chest as he sat back down at the head of the empty table. So the boy was finally awake, then. He always did have a tendency to sleep in if Voldemort didn't awaken him early enough in the morning. But this thought brought about an ache in Voldemort's chest that was not Harry's, and he banished it quickly from his mind. He did not even bother to attempt reading Harry's thoughts; a few adventurous pokes the evening before had left Voldemort clutching at his temples with pain from the unbridled emotion bursting at the seams of their connection.

It was no matter. Harry could wait. The boy would surely only spend the day stewing in his own guilt over the death of his stupid redhead wench, anyway, perhaps even locking himself in another bedroom like the childish teenager that he was.

As much as some insignificant, uncontrollable part of Voldemort was aching to know what the boy was thinking at the moment,

(_and how had he fallen so far, to be strung so deeply to the emotions and whims of a snotty teenager?_)

he had other things to attend to. Namely, picking out the traitor that had lost the Dark Lord his most precious possession. Voldemort sighed softly and picked up the fork in front of him, prodding absently at a piece of chocolate cake that sat there, untouched. Bitterness swelled within him at the sight of it, a reminder of what he had to lose, of what he'd almost lost.

Lord Voldemort was not going to suffer traitors any longer.

* * *

><p>Harry found the same huddle of adults in the sitting room, with the addition of Ron and Hermione, still talking softly when he walked back into the house. Harry hated them all for it. He wanted them to talk loudly, to laugh and shout and cry. All of this whispering was like entering a house that was holding its breath, waiting for someone to die.<p>

And Ginny was not dying, thank you very much. She couldn't be. Harry refused to even think about that as a possibility.

When Harry walked into the sitting room, however, the room fell immediately silent, every pair of eyes turning to him and then glancing nervously away. And Harry realized with a start that they were not speaking quietly because of Ginny - they were speaking quietly because of _him_.

"Harry," said Mr. Weasley, stepping forward, and there was that false cheerfulness again. "How are you, my boy?"

If Mr. Weasley asked him that question one more time, Harry thought he might not be able to stop himself from punching him.

"We were just talking about the Horcruxes, Harry," Hermione said quickly from where she sat on the couch, as though sensing the danger here, but this abrupt change of topic did nothing to soothe his nerves. In fact, when Harry processed exactly what Hermione had said, he felt like he had been punched in the stomach.

Hermione had just said the word _Horcruxes, _and in front of all these members of the Order! Dumbledore had told Harry and Harry alone about Voldemort's weakness. They had kept it a secret all this time - and now his friends were talking freely about it to the Order, as though Dark magic that split your soul in half was something that they taught you in First Year Charms.

Harry's eyes must have widened in horror, because Hermione seemed to realize what she'd done wrong, and she opened her mouth to explain when Ron suddenly stood up from where he had been sitting beside her.

"I told them," Ron said simply, glaring. "We've been doing a fine job botching it up so far, and it's not like you were going to go ahead and get rid of the rest of them on your own."

Harry's mouth was dry, his heart nearly stopping in his chest. Did that mean that they knew Harry was a Horcrux as well? What did this mean for Voldemort - for Harry?

"Now Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said gently, "we're here to help you. And although _I _rather think that Dumbledore is asking far too much of a handful of children - and please don't take offense to this, Harry, but you really are still so very young - the other Order members present seem to believe that you need to finish the job yourself, as Dumbledore required."

"Oh leave it alone already, Mum, he's of age," Fred said, earning a glare from his mother. "You should be glad that we know what's going on at all!"

"Imagine if Dumbledore didn't find out?" George added darkly. "We'd have been stuck with him forever. An eternity, even."

"Fortunately, that's not the case." Mr. Weasley clasped his hands together and forced a weak smile. "We just need to destroy the rest of these - these Horncruxers that are left - how many did you say, Hermione, four? - Harry can fulfill the prophecy, and we'll be rid of You-Know-Who forever."

Harry wasn't sure whether he wanted to run from the room or throw things at them. On the bright side, if he was doing his math correctly, his friends hadn't divulged the tiny, insignificant detail of Harry's fate as well. Perhaps there was at least some silver lining to this terrible news after all.

Harry honestly didn't know how the Order would react if they knew that Voldemort's soul existed inside of Harry's body. He had a feeling that it would involve a Fidelius charm, a variety of magical locks, and perhaps even a dragon or two. The Order would not want to take any chances with Voldemort's soul.

"But we don't know where they are, do we?" Bill said, frowning. "Not quite so simple when you consider that part."

"Well, I was hoping," Hermione said, her gaze flitting nervously to Harry, "that Harry might have an idea."

She seemed to be holding her breath as she caught his eye. A question, Harry realized. An option. Not, 'I saw Harry putting the locket Horcrux back into a chest that was coincidentally full of other valuable items potentially significant to Voldemort's life,' all in one fast breath, the way she recited definitions from a textbook. But rather, an opportunity, a way for Harry to make the decision himself.

Perhaps it was this small amount of control offered to him that made Harry do what he did next. Looking back, Harry wished that Hermione had tried to force him, to declare with the pushy certainty that she answered a professor's question that she was the only one in the class that knew exactly where the Horcruxes were and how they could get them. It might have been easier, then, to hate her, to hate all of them, to firmly say, 'No,' and walk right out of the room to be alone with his grief for the girl he might have married.

But Ginny was nearly dying, and Hermione trusted him, and the memory of Tom Riddle's kiss wasn't strong enough to keep him from his place in the world, laid out for him before he had even spoken his first words in his mother's arms - arms that had been cruelly torn away from him at far too young an age. So under the watchful, waiting eyes of everyone in the room, Harry swallowed, looked at his feet, and made his choice.

"Yes," he said, his voice very soft. "Yes, I do."

It was Ron who suggested that Harry go back. His eyes were hardened and cold with resentment as he told the room that Harry had grown 'close' with the Dark Lord, that he could return to You-Know-Who's side until he had an opportunity to steal the rest and escape. He didn't look at Harry as he spoke.

"So it's easy, now, to escape from Voldemort's lair?" Hermione retaliated, and although her voice was snappish, Harry could see that she was panicked. _She doesn't trust me_, he realized with a jolt. _She doesn't think I'll leave him_.

"We've only just spent a month trapped in an Unplottable French cottage," Hermione continued angrily. "What if he brings Harry someplace we can't find him? I doubt he'll coincidentally run into another covert member of the Order again."

"He'll have his wand this time," Ron replied.

Hermione snorted. "Yes, I'm sure that Voldemort would just so happen to overlook that detail."

"_Don't say his name! _And he'll have his wand because Harry is going to pretend to join him."

There were a few seconds of stunned silence in which even Hermione couldn't think of a clever retort.

"Join him?" Fred recovered first. "Harry Potter, joining You-Know-Who? Doesn't sound like the best cover to me, Ron."

"Harry said You-Know-Who was going on about it all the time!" Ron insisted, looking at Harry for the first time since he'd suggested Harry go back. He was beginning to sound excited despite himself. "Because Harry's his equal, or some rot like that."

"His equal?" George said, looking incredulous even as Harry scowled in response to Ron's backhanded insult. "Are we talking about the same You-Know-Who here?"

"It was in the prophecy," Harry explained, thinking fast. "Voldemort thinks he'd be more powerful with me on his side than he would with me dead."

"Maybe he's tired of chasing you," Bill said with a chuckle. "Harry's evaded him enough times to drive anyone mad, after all."

"So what will stop He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named from changing his mind?" Kingsley asked, his low, booming voice colored with doubt. "It was fortunate that he did not attempt to harm Harry over the past month, but what if he should decide it more prudent to eliminate the problem altogether?"

"He won't," Harry said, beginning to feel sick again. "He won't kill me."

"And what makes you so sure?" said Mr. Weasley, narrowing his eyes with a look not far from suspicion.

_Because I'm his Horcrux. Because he promised not to. Because, somewhere, some small part of him knows that he loves me, even if he won't admit it to himself_.

"Because I know," Harry said, averting his gaze, afraid that they'd all read the real answer in his eyes. "He's had loads of opportunities to do it - yesterday being one of them - and he just let me walk away. He won't kill me."

"He's got a point," Bill agreed.

"Harry," Mr. Weasley said, "there's only been one other person to ever play spy for us. An accomplished wizard, a trusted friend, and he managed to fool us all, even Albus Dumbledore himself. Even if this is our only option, it's not worth losing you in the process. Are you certain you know what you're doing?"

Harry felt the eyes of everyone in the room on him, an uneasy myriad of emotions swelling in his chest. No, he didn't know what he was doing. He hadn't even had time to process this information, and now that it was being posed as a question, his mind began to spin at a hundred miles a minute.

Return to Voldemort? After everything that happened? Lie to him, pretend to be on his side - and then steal the other pieces of his soul so that the Order could destroy them? Yes, he was angry with Voldemort for everything that happened - furious, really - but how could he be expected to resume his normal Dark Lord hunting duties after sharing the man's bed for a month?

His stomach turned over on itself. Christ, he had been baking the man a birthday cake less than twenty-four hours ago! He had seen Voldemort smiling and cooking dinner, weeping after killing his Muggle father, torturing, laughing, loving, murdering, beautiful. He had seen every corner of Voldemort's mind - and perhaps even his heart.

And yet this might be his only chance to return to him. Whether under the guise of a spy, a lover, or an assassin, Harry was not going to be able to find his way back to Voldemort under the Order's watchful gaze unless they supported him in his efforts. And from the doubtful look on Mr. Weasley's face - and Kingsley's too, for that matter - this might be his only opportunity to convince them to allow Harry to return.

For better or for worse, he needed to make a decision, and quickly.

"How would I get back?" Harry finally said. "Even if I do have my wand, I'm still no more equipped to take out Voldemort than I was all the other times that he's nearly killed me."

"We'll teach you how to communicate with a Patronus," said Mr. Weasley. "As soon as you're able to gather the Horse-truxes, you can send a Patronus to us with your location. We'll come and get you out of there."

Harry swallowed. It seemed like an awful lot of risks to be taking. They were betting on the fact that Voldemort still would accept Harry into his ranks, give him his wand, and allow Harry anywhere near his Horcruxes - never mind the matter of Harry somehow keeping all of this from Voldemort in the meanwhile. He had improved substantially with Occlumency over the course of his lessons with the Dark Lord - even when enduring what Voldemort liked to describe as "intense distraction" - but did that mean he would be able to fool Voldemort when it came to the real thing?

Mr. Weasley seemed to read Harry's thoughts in his eyes, because he did not wait for Harry to respond before speaking again. "It's a dangerous task, Harry, but you're the only one who can do it. It might be our only option at this point. We've already proved to ourselves that an organized assault against You-Know-Who's ranks isn't a possibility, and we need to destroy the Horn-fruxes to destroy You-Know-Who. Do you think that you're up for it?"

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The idea of facing Voldemort after everything that had happened was terrifying to him.

"Think of Ginny, Harry," said Hermione, and Harry was surprised to see that she was looking at him with a plea in her eyes. "Think of your parents, and Sirius, and Remus. This is the only way to avenge them. You've got to do it, Harry. It's the only way to set things right."

Harry heard the double meaning in her words, and despite the sting in his heart, he knew that she was right. Harry had done all he could for Voldemort. And no matter how tenderly the Dark Lord touched him in the moonlight, or kissed his scar when he thought Harry was sleeping, or smiled when Harry succeeded with a difficult spell, it didn't change the fact that he was a murderer. He had still tried to kill Ginny, even after everything that had happened.

Perhaps - and this thought threatened tears in his eyes, but he pressed them away quickly with the heel of his hand - perhaps, Voldemort truly was beyond redemption. Perhaps Tom Riddle was lost, nothing more than a ghost in a locket that would haunt Harry's dreams for the rest of his life.

"I can do it." Harry looked up to meet Mr. Weasley's eyes with as much confidence as he could muster. "I'll find them and destroy them. You have my word."

* * *

><p>The skin on Ginny's cheek was hot to the touch. Mrs. Tonks explained that it was a natural reaction to the curse Voldemort had used to slice her throat; it was healing, but her body was rejecting the Dark magic that had seeped in through the wound. She assured them that Ginny would be okay, that she only needed some time to ride out the fever, but this didn't make Harry feel any better as he brushed his fingers across her cheek and nearly recoiled from the height of her temperature.<p>

"I'm sorry, Ginny," he murmured, his hand moving to touch her hair instead. He leaned forward in his chair to get a better look at her face, even paler than usual in the moonlight.

She was pretty, in a very feminine way. Harry knew that he had found her attractive once - at least, he thought he had - but that was before he knew what it truly meant to be _attracted_ to someone. He had never felt fire lick his skin just from a heated glance, or grown dizzy from the brush of fingers against his neck or his elbow - places he'd never known could be sensitive.

Before. Funny, how he was dividing his life into two halves now - before, when Lord Voldemort only meant the evil maniac that had killed his parents, and when Harry still stole chaste kisses from Ginny when her brothers weren't looking. Before, when he still thought that a normal, happy life was in the cards for him after he rid the wizarding world of the Dark Lord.

_Our destinies are intertwined_, Voldemort had said, and how right he was. Killing Voldemort meant killing himself now. There was no way around it. In order to defeat the Dark Lord, Harry would have to die as well.

_There are other ways to defeat him_, a small, tantalizing part of him whispered.

Ginny rolled over on the bed. Harry sat up abruptly, his fingers clenching the armrests of his chair, heart pounding. He reached forward, hesitant, and touched her arm.

"Ginny?" he said softly.

She sat up with a start, bright brown eyes flying open and gasping for air. Relief washed over Harry, and the boy let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as he reached out to touch her shoulder soothingly.

"Harry?" she whispered, her eyes wide and scared. The shadows from the trees outside the bay window played across her face in a midnight breeze, making her skin a mosaic of white and black, a shattered porcelain doll.

"Shhh, I'm here." Harry went from the chair to the bed in an instant, sitting beside her and wrapping an arm around her. She shivered against him, despite the sickening waves of heat rolling off her body.

"Are we dead?" Ginny's voice was very hoarse. She had raised her fingers to her throat, where she was pressing against the smooth skin of her healed scar.

_You came very close_, Harry thought, but instead he said, "Don't be dense." Forced laugh. "We escaped with a Portkey."

"Always there to save me from him, aren't you," said Ginny, and laughed nervously. She buried her face in his shoulder, still giggling almost hysterically, but Harry could feel her shaking against him. Sighing, he wrapped his arm more firmly around her, pulling her into the crook of his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Ginny began. "I shouldn't have - "

Harry raised his hand and touched her lips. "Don't," he said. "It was my fault you got hurt in the first place."

Ginny looked rather startled, and Harry realized that his fingers were still resting against her mouth. He had only meant to stop her from talking, but now that he saw what he was doing, how this must look, he felt like kicking himself. Blinking, Harry went to pull his hand away, but she reached up quickly and grabbed his wrist, holding him there.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and with a lurch of his stomach, Harry watched her press her lips a little more firmly against the tips of his fingers.

"Ginny," Harry said warningly, but this time her fingers flew up to his lips, and then she was leaning forward, cupping his face.

"Please," she said, and there were tears filling up in her eyes. "Please, just let me. Just tonight. Stay with me."

Harry felt like he was going to be sick. He didn't want this - she was practically his sister, he knew that now better than ever - but before he could protest, Ginny's mouth had leaned up to cover his own, hot with fever and soft and wet.

Wet. Why was it that girls always thought it was a good idea to kiss him while they were crying?

She pulled away just as quickly as she had advanced on him, and Harry wasn't sure what to do now, because Ginny had buried her face in his sternum and she was shaking with tears. Could he comfort her without leading her on? How did he get himself into these situations, anyway?

"I thought I was in love with him." The words were so muffled and soft that Harry could hardly hear them, but when he made them out, his heart lurched with hope. Him? Perhaps there was someone else, a way to make this easier for the both of them.

"Who?" Harry said tentatively, his hand moving awkwardly across the thin material of the back of her nightgown. His stomach was still churning from the way she had kissed him, and he was eager to change the subject.

Ginny's fingers came up to grasp Harry's shirt weakly, and she pressed her face against his chest further, her body trembling. "Tom."

The name was like a shock of cold water down his spine. Harry blinked, his breath catching in his throat, and he thanked whatever gods that were watching out for him that her face was still hidden in his shirt because he was sure that Ginny would have noticed the change that came over him from the mention of that one, tiny syllable.

"You remind me of him sometimes, you know," she said softly, raising her head, and Harry struggled to control his composure as she met his gaze. She sniffed and wiped at her eyes, which were now red around the edges. "In all the good ways, I mean. Before I understood what he really was." She shuddered in horror.

"People can be very deceiving, Ginny," Harry said, placing his hands flat on the bed behind him and leaning as casually as he could on them. He didn't want to put his arm around her again at risk of another kiss.

"You're not deceiving," Ginny said. "You're the most honest person that I know. It's one of the things that I love about you."

Harry tried to ignore the way his intestines attempted to knot themselves together as Ginny leaned against his side again, her head falling back against his shoulder. She didn't attempt to kiss him again, and she didn't say anything about the fact that Harry did not try to touch her. They only sat there, Ginny leaning against him and Harry leaning back against his palms, and it might have been comfortable if it weren't for the miles of tension and bitterness stretching between them. Harry was almost beginning to wonder if she had fallen asleep when she spoke again.

"Is it wrong to miss him?" A whisper, but it spoke louder to Harry's heart than anything she had ever said to him before.

"No," Harry replied softly, and his hand came up without his permission to touch her hair in that familiar way again. "No, I don't think so."

Ginny nodded, and then she looked up and met his eye. "Do you ever wonder … about how similar you are to him?" she asked softly. "Do you think it's strange?"

"Sometimes," he said truthfully, "but the only thing that's strange is how differently we turned out. We had so much in common, and I can't help but wonder sometimes …" He trailed off, his eyes falling to his lap.

"He used to speak Parseltongue to me," Ginny said suddenly, and she smiled tearfully at him. "He would say he was telling me all the things he was too shy to say in English." She sighed a little wistfully. "It's a beautiful language. You shouldn't be ashamed of it."

"I'm not ashamed of it," Harry said, frowning. Ginny's smile looked beautiful in the pale blue light spilling in from the window, and Harry was reminded why he thought he could marry her once, even though the time for Ginny's beauty and thoughts of marriage was long past.

"Yes, you are! You bear it like it's a curse or something." Ginny smiled brighter at him, and Harry found her shift from crying to teasing a very relieving one. She shifted closer to him on the bedclothes, the moonlight still playing shadows across her face. "Could you … say something in Parseltongue to me now?"

"In Parseltongue?" Harry raised an eyebrow, unsure of whether he should feel uncomfortable because she had regained her composure, or happy that she was no longer sobbing on him. "What do you want me to say?"

"Anything," she said, leaning closer. Harry could see where the tracks of tears had dried on her cheeks. "What you're afraid to say aloud. Anything you want."

Harry let his eyes fall shut and tried to think of the things that frightened him. The face of his enemy and his lover immediately swam before his eyelids, every detail of the man's face and eyes and body coming to form like a flawless photograph in the darkness of his mind. In fact, it was easy to imagine that Voldemort was here now, sitting beside him, ten times more perfect and beautiful than pretty little Ginny.

She touched his hand gently, but it was not her fingers that he felt.

Harry heard himself speak before the words had even formed in his mind.

"_Tom_," he whispered in a slow hiss, and felt Tom - no, _Ginny_ - shiver against him. "_Tom, I wish you were here right now. I wish it more than anything in the world_."

The bed shifted beside him, and then Ginny was pressing herself against him again, a warm mouth covering his own. For one wild moment, Harry thought that it was Voldemort here beside him, kissing him and possessing him as he had every night for the past month. And why shouldn't Harry kiss her back? He had been through so much turmoil in the past day and a half, and it was so easy to imagine that it was Voldemort here instead, Voldemort sucking Harry's lip into his mouth, Voldemort's fingers clutching in his hair -

- but then Harry's fingers came up and instead of a firm, flat chest, they met with Ginny's soft breasts through her nightgown.

(_wrong wrong wrong wrong wron_g)

It came on quite suddenly, before Harry could process exactly what was happening. Fire in his scar, fire spreading through his skull, and he had never known such pain while he was in Voldemort's bed. Yes, something was very wrong.

"_And why would you wish for that, Harry? It seems as though you are doing just fine on your own_."

The voice was the embodiment of anger itself, and Harry's eyes flew open in horror as he realized what he was doing. He flew off the bed in an instant, and Ginny tumbled to the floor after him, crying out softly as she fell to the ground with a thump. Harry backed away, his forehead throbbing, horror and dread coiling in his gut.

"Harry?" Ginny said, breathing heavily. Harry saw there was a sheen of sweat on her forehead, and he suddenly felt like he was going to be sick again. What was he doing? The girl had a fever, and he was kissing her and tossing her around like a rag doll!

"I'm sorry," Harry said, but it came out as a rasp as the pain in his forehead doubled. "I shouldn't have - "

"Harry!" Ginny said again, but the boy was clutching his scar now. "It's him, isn't it?"

"_At least she isn't completely brainless. A perfect choice, Harry, if I do say so myself. You can both wallow in your sentimental stupidity together - isn't that what you've always wanted?"_

"No," Harry ground out. "No, it's not - it's only a headache, now, if you'll excuse me - "

Harry stumbled out of the bedroom, ignoring Ginny as she called weakly after him. He nearly barrelled into Mrs. Weasley on his way out, who had no doubt been coming to investigate the source of all the noise.

"_I must say, I'm perfectly insulted that I didn't receive a wedding invitation - are you sure that you have my address?_"

"Ginny's up," Harry managed to say through the haze of pain in his scar before he staggered toward his own bedroom. He made it just in time to slam the door behind him before he collapsed onto the ground, his fingers pressing uselessly against his scar.

"Tom," Harry said, "Tom, no, it's - it's not like that - "

"_You dare call me by that name? If you value your life, Harry Potter, you won't call me anything ever again."_

The pain fled from Harry's forehead after that, receding to the dull flicker that illustrated Voldemort's indirect fury. And no matter how many times Harry pleaded and begged, he could not convince Voldemort to speak again. The bridge between their minds was on fire, a hellish path that Harry didn't dare attempt to traverse to reach out to his lover, and one that it was clear Voldemort had no intention of journeying down again.

Harry didn't sleep all night. All he could think about was the morning, when he was expected to walk into Malfoy Manor and back into Voldemort's grasp. Malfoy Manor, where he was expected to determine the fate of the wizarding world through a complicated web of lies.

But the more that Harry dwelt on it, the more impossible it seemed. After all, one cannot weave a web to catch a spider. And next to Lord Voldemort, Harry was even more powerless than the most over-confident, insignificant fly.


	26. IV:7

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort, sexual content

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

A/N: WOW. So I severely underestimated how busy I would be over the holidays. That combined with the fact that I was struggling hardcore with this chapter led to a much longer wait than I expected. I'm sorry for leaving you guys with such an angsty chapter to dwell on. Hopefully this one will make things a little better. Thank you to all of my lovely reviewers, as always. Constructive criticism is always welcome, especially since I feel like I've been struggling lately. I hope you all enjoyed your holidays! Happy reading!

* * *

><p>7.<p>

Dawn came and went without fanfare. The sounds of breakfast and quiet voices drifted underneath the crack of Harry's door, and the morning sun was filtering through the curtains of his bedroom. And still, Harry had not been able to coax little more than a dull sensation of rage from the Dark Lord.

Rolling over in his bed, Harry rubbed at sleepless eyes and sighed. He would take anything at this point, even another generic threat to his life and friends, just if it meant that Voldemort was speaking to him.

"Harry?" There was a tentative knock on his door, and for a moment, Harry was terrified that it was Ginny, coming to chew him out about his abrupt departure the night before (and the disastrous events preceding it). But the female that stuck her head through the doorway had decidedly bushier and browner hair than any Weasley, and Harry found himself inordinately relieved to see Hermione walk inside, despite how irritated he'd been with her the day before.

That did not, however, mean that he wanted to see her. Biting his lip, Harry squeezed his eyes shut and tried for the most convincing snore he could muster.

"Don't think you can have me on, Harry James Potter. I've only been sleeping with you for the last four months, you know." There was a pause as Hermione realized exactly how this statement sounded, and Harry could practically hear the blush in her next words. "I meant sleeping in the same _tent _as you," she corrected herself hastily. "Besides, you've been sleeping with Voldemort for the past few weeks." Another pause. "Oh, god, that's not what I meant either."

Harry had been planning on snoring loudly through whatever Hermione had to say until she left him alone, but now she was spluttering so badly that he felt compelled to save her from this train of thought before it went any further.

"Just because you sleep with a person doesn't mean you know them," Harry said as he sat up, trying vainly to make light of the situation and failing when he realized how accurately it could be applied to his own situation.

"Tell me about it," Hermione said, laughing hollowly and shutting the door behind her. "Although I suppose I always knew deep down that Ron was a git, I would have never expected him to do what he did yesterday."

Harry put on his spectacles and tried not to glare at her. He had held her just as responsible for the events of the previous day as he did Ron, but looking at her now standing remorsefully by the door, he knew that she had done only what she thought was best for him. Ron, on the other hand, was acting out of his own selfish stubbornness as he tended to whenever he was placed in a stressful situation.

"It didn't surprise me," Harry relented, smoothing his hand across the bedclothes beside him to indicate that she was allowed to sit. "He was a right git during the Triwizard Tournament as well. We didn't speak for weeks, remember?"

"How could I forget?" Hermione sat down beside him. "I spent the entire time shuttling insults between the two of you. It was nearly interfering with my study time, I'll have you know."

Harry snorted. Because heavens forfend that Hermione Granger was only one week ahead of her schoolwork instead of two. "And look at us now. I've taken a whole year of studying away from you." Harry forced a pained laugh.

Hermione looked stricken. "Oh, Harry, I didn't mean it like that."

"I know." Harry sighed and ran a hand over his tired face. "I'm sorry. It just seems surreal sometimes, that this is my life now. Everything's changed so much."

_And it's only going to change even more._

"Are you sure you want to do this, Harry?" Hermione was giving him that perceptive, concerned look again, the one with the furrowed brow, and Harry felt resentment rush over him in an icy wave.

"Oh, now you care about what I want?" Harry laughed bitterly and tried not to look at her. "Yesterday, this was the only way to save everyone from certain death."

"Well, it is," she responded matter-of-factly. "But you're constantly thinking of everyone else all the time. You've spent your entire life sacrificing yourself for others. You need to consider what you want sometimes, too, Harry."

"I wanted to stay with him," Harry said, sending her a sidelong glare as he remembered the way she had beckoned him to come quietly with the Order from Voldemort's home.

"And they would have taken you away by force either way," Hermione reminded him. "I was only trying to make it less painful for you."

Harry sighed heavily.

"What do you want, Harry? What do you really want?"

"I want to do what's right," Harry replied easily. A practiced answer, one that came naturally to the tip of his tongue without any thought.

Hermione took his hand, drew his eyes to her face. "But what's right for _you_?" she asked softly.

He shook his head. "It depends who you ask."

"I'm asking you," she said pointedly.

"It doesn't matter what I want." Harry was beginning to get frustrated, and it bled into the tone of his voice. Clenching his teeth, Harry drew his hand away from her. "He killed my parents, Hermione. He nearly killed Ginny yesterday. I don't think he can change."

"But he is … _kind _to you," Hermione reminded him gently. "He cares about you deeply. Even Ron could see that. It really bothered him."

"He won't be kind to the Muggleborns," Harry said ruefully. "I can't just condemn a whole group of people to death just because … because …"

"Because of your whole saving-people complex, I know," Hermione said with a small smile, echoing what she had told him once in his fifth year. "The Order will get along just fine without you though, Harry."

Harry blinked and looked up at her in surprise. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that everything might not be lost." She reached up and brushed his bangs off of his forehead. "And that you don't have to live your entire life for everyone else."

"But," Harry spluttered, utterly confused now. "But what about the Horcruxes? I'm the only one that can – the only Parselmouth aside from – "

"Who said anything about Horcruxes?" Hermione smiled. "You're going to be with him for quite a while, Harry. Perhaps you can find a way around this whole thing."

Harry couldn't think of what he should say to this. This was so far removed from the attitudes of the rest of the Order yesterday that he couldn't even process that someone else was willing to cling to hope with him. That hope still even existed.

"Watch him. Help him." She reached out and squeezed his hand again. "Love him." Harry opened his mouth to protest, but she spoke over him. "I know that you do. Love him, I mean."

Harry gaped stupidly at her for a moment before he found words. "How can I be in love with him?" He tried his best to sound incredulous, but his voice was very unsteady. "His life's purpose has been to murder me for as long as I've been alive."

"That's changed considerably."

"He would try to kill you, too."

"He had plenty of opportunity to do that already, don't you think?"

"He tried to murder Ginny!"

"Because he was jealous! God, Harry, you can be so thick sometimes." Hermione looked very exasperated. "She kissed you right in front of him! Even if you weren't an active participant, how would you feel if you saw Voldemort kissing someone else?"

Harry felt his cheeks flush with guilt as he recalled what he had done only last night. He hadn't even thought about how Ginny's kiss outside of the Burrow had affected Voldemort at the time. He'd been too consumed with anger at the fact that Voldemort had gone against his word.

Clinging to this thought, Harry frowned and crossed his arms stubbornly. "It doesn't matter. He promised he wouldn't hurt anyone trying to protect me, and he lied."

"He's just as human as anyone else, Harry," Hermione said patiently. "People make mistakes. I suppose the magnitude of the Dark Lord's mistakes might be a little … bigger than everyone else's, but it was a mistake all the same. Why don't you try to talk to him about it?"

Harry thought about how their heated arguments usually dissolved into Voldemort shoving him bodily against the nearest hard surface and kissing any coherent thoughts from his overheated brain, and felt his cheeks burn hot on his face. "He's not much for talking." _And I think he'd sooner torture me than kiss me at this point._

"That will work itself out," Hermione said dismissively. "The real question is whether you can be happy with him without the weight of the wizarding world on your shoulders."

Harry snorted. "Fat chance."

"Bide your time. Tell him that you're joining him, and see if you can sway his … er … rather controversial policies." Hermione smiled. "And when the time comes, make a decision. You'll know what to do. Either way, you can send the Patronus with your choice, and the Order will either let you be or come and get you out of there."

Harry closed his eyes and pulled Hermione into a hug. "Thanks, Hermione." He felt monumentally grateful that he hadn't attempted to snore through their conversation. "You're my best friend, you know that?"

She pulled away to smile at him. "And you're mine. Come on, now, let's get some breakfast. You've got a long day ahead of you."

Any amount of relief he had gotten from their conversation dissipated at the prospect of facing Voldemort this afternoon. Harry closed his eyes and sighed, wondering what the Dark Lord was doing right now.

Tentatively, Harry poked at the connection that stretched to Voldemort's mind. He immediately recoiled, like a child poking at a hot stove. Voldemort had had all night to stew in his anger, and it was still just as strong as it had been when the touch of Ginny's lips had exploded into fiery pain in his forehead.

A long day indeed. Harry ran a hand anxiously through his hair and followed Hermione out of the room.

* * *

><p>They decided on Malfoy Manor in the end.<p>

Harry had wanted to return to the cottage in the forest, but after much debate, Hermione had talked him out of it. The only reason Voldemort had been at the cottage in the first place, Hermione reasoned, was for Harry's protection, and now that Harry was gone, Voldemort did not have any motivation to return there.

"And then you, one of the world's most wanted wizards, will be stuck alone in a forest in France," Hermione said. "Who knows what the Snatchers would do to you if they found you on your own? It's better you go straight to Voldemort yourself."

There was a collective flinch from every occupant of the sitting room as Hermione pronounced the Dark Lord's name – including Harry. _Never mind the Snatchers. Who knows what _Voldemort _will do to me when I get there?_

They were all gathered in Mrs. Tonks' small kitchen, looking tired and drawn. Harry had been forced to eat a sandwich, despite the fact that he was sure his stomach was attempting to turn itself inside-out this morning.

Ginny had not come downstairs. Tonks explained that she was still very tired from her injury and she wanted to wish Harry the best of luck, but Harry could see from the way that Tonks' eyes lingered just long enough on Harry's face that there was more to this story than she was letting on. Guilt made Harry turn his eyes quickly to his empty plate, and terror made his stomach threaten to heave his sandwich back up onto it.

The overcrowded kitchen was silent now. Harry desperately tried to think about what else they needed to do, another loose end to tie, anything to keep him here longer. But all of the preparations had been made. Harry had been given Ginny's wand, since she would be bedridden and well-protected by her family. Mr. Weasley had quickly reviewed with Harry the measures required to send a message through a Patronus. There was nothing else left to do, nothing left to discuss that might put off his encounter with Voldemort any longer. The time had come.

"And if the mission seems hopeless," Mr. Weasley was saying sternly, "you will summon us immediately. Don't dally in unnecessary danger, Harry. We will find another way to retrieve these Hor-thingies – "

"Horcruxes, Dad," Ron corrected irritably under his breath.

"— right, the Horn-busses, if you can't get a hold of them within a reasonable time frame."

Harry nodded miserably at the table. "Right."

"And you must remember, Harry, that it is imperative to play the part of the spy to the best of your ability," Mr. Weasley said. "You may be expected to do some terrible things, but you'll have to follow through with them to gain You-Know-Who's trust. If he learns that you have been sent as an assassin, he will almost certainly kill you."

Everyone was staring at him, now, and it was clear that he was expected to say something. Harry tried to keep his eyes from wandering to his empty plate and mustered his best confident facial expression.

"I'll do my best." A ripple of frowns across the room. That wasn't enough. "I've gotten really good at Occlumency. Voldemort was teaching me himself." Oh, but that was even worse, wasn't it? Ron flinched again, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were trading a meaningful look across the table. Would they change their mind at the last minute? What if they decided this wasn't a good idea?

Desperate, now, Harry stood up rather abruptly and raised himself to his full height. "I know that this is the right thing to do. We need to get rid of him once and for all, and I know that I'm the right person to do it."

That seemed to be what they were looking for. Fred and George each gave Harry an amiable clap on the shoulder, and Mrs. Weasley smiled tearfully at him like the surrogate mother that she was. Even Ron looked like he was beginning to forgive him for taking a liking to a man that could try to kill his sister.

Only Hermione understood the turmoil that was churning destructively through Harry's mind and heart. She gave him a very small nod, and Harry remembered their conversation earlier that morning. He tried not to look distraught as Mrs. Weasley rushed over and pulled him into a suffocating hug, sparking off a long line of handshakes and back-pats and kisses as every member of the Order quietly wished him luck.

Harry didn't even process what half of them said. All he could think of was Voldemort's dull rage in the back of his mind and the decision that loomed over his head like a death sentence. He couldn't figure out whether Hermione had put hope back into his mind or simply made things worse. He was sure that all of these conflicting feelings would tear him right in half when all was said and done.

Perhaps Voldemort had been right. Maybe Harry would be better off without his feelings after all.

* * *

><p>Harry experienced an unfamiliar sense of <em>déjà vu<em> as he materialized with a soft _pop_ in the cold January air. After whirling about nervously to assure himself that he was alone—and quickly counting his fingers and his toes, as Harry had never felt entirely confident with Apparating on his own—the boy looked around him, at the high hedges and the gravel beneath his feet, and tried to remember from whose eyes he had dreamed this place.

But then again, Harry thought as he surveyed the tall wrought-iron gate before him, he _had_ been here before, hadn't he? Truly and in the flesh. Of course, he had been possessed when it happened, captivated by a memory in a locket, but the portion of his consciousness that had been aware of his surroundings at the time recognized this gate with a flash of terror.

He was taken with the sudden wish that Tom were here with him again, giving him the strength and the courage that he needed to go through with this.

_Some Gryffindor you are, _Harry thought to himself as he walked tentatively toward the gate, Ginny's wand both unfamiliar and comforting between his fingers.

Fighting down the terror rising in his throat, Harry looked the gate up and down. He tried to remember everything that he could about magical gates and locks and came up with very little. Surely, Voldemort would have put every possible protection on the entrance to his headquarters. Dismay swelled overwhelmingly in Harry's chest. He had hardly been on his own for more than five minutes, and already he was stuck.

_Buck up, Harry_. The boy took a deep breath and gripped his new wand a little tighter. He would begin with what he knew, and then he would have to rely on what always seemed to get him out of these awful situations – dumb luck.

Raising his wand, Harry bit his lip. "_Alohomora_." He felt stupid even before the spell had left his lips. Obviously the Dark Lord would have accounted for the most basic unlocking charm while protecting his headquarters. But even Hermione would have wanted him to get the basics out of the way first, right?

Not to his great surprise, nothing happened. The spell was simply absorbed by the gate.

Harry frowned. Perhaps he could try to Apparate across? But what would happen if there were wards preventing Apparation? Harry had never tried to Apparate somewhere designed to keep out intruders. What if he ended up Splinched outside of the Dark Lord's home? He recalled with a visible shudder the amount of blood that had left Ron's body after being Splinched in the forest, and Harry winced.

No Apparating, then. There were many ways that Harry had resigned he would die today, and a Splinching accident was not one of them.

Furrowing his brow, Harry took in the height of the gate as his mind reverted to a more Muggle way of thinking. What if he tried to physically scale it? Perhaps Voldemort hadn't thought of that. It wasn't as though Harry had any other ideas, and trying to climb it was better than waiting outside until a Death Eater came along and started shooting spells at him, right? Unconscious and helpless was not how he had envisioned his entrance into Malfoy Manor today, thank you very much.

Rather reluctantly, Harry slipped his wand into the waistband of his jeans and approached the gate. He tried to think about how high he would need to heave himself to get a foothold on that iron bar, but it turned out that he did not even need to think that far. As he reached out his left hand to grab at the gate, expecting his fingers to close around a solid iron bar, he watched with shock as they simply _passed right through_.

Eyes widening, Harry jumped back and looked frantically at his hand. His first thought was that the gate had disintegrated his fingers, but, upon closer inspection, it was clear that they were still very much intact. Perhaps … perhaps the _Alohomora _had worked after all! There was no other reason that the gate would be yielding to him, right?

Feeling ridiculously proud of his spellwork, Harry grabbed his wand from his pocket and walked straight through the gates, grinning as the wrought-iron bars dissolved around him.

His grin quickly faltered, however, when he realized that he was, indeed, through the gates. There was nothing else between him and Voldemort now, no more avoiding their inevitable confrontation. This was really happening.

As he walked down the lane, Harry was certain that this driveway had not stretched this far when he had been here last. Of course, he had been completely enamored by the comfort of the locket at the time and paid little attention to the hedges running on either side of the way, the fountain gurgling softly in the distance, the terror gradually swallowing his body whole. Harry wished once again that Tom were here beside him to make this a little easier. He promised himself that if he ever found the locket again, he would thank Tom for the small comfort the other boy had once offered him on the path to Harry's death.

Harry found himself on the doorstep of the manor all too soon. He stared at the large wooden door blankly, remembering how longingly he had imagined the outside of this door when he had been trapped inside Malfoy Manor those many long weeks ago. Had he gone mad now, to willingly walk straight through it?

For a moment, Harry was seized with fear that Voldemort wasn't here, that he was about to waltz into a group of Death Eaters without the Dark Lord to protect him,

(_and why couldn't Harry make up his mind? Did he want to see Voldemort or not?_)

but a tentative prod at the other man's mind and a magnetic tugging in his heart simultaneously confirmed both his hopes and his fears in one terrible moment.

Voldemort was indeed here.

Harry reached out a hand to brush against the doorknob, and the door swung open without warning, nearly causing Harry to tumble backward down the stairs of the porch in surprise. The hallway through the door was dark and decidedly empty, however, and Harry tried to calm his racing heart as he steadied himself and stepped inside.

His footsteps echoed ominously inside the empty hallway, too quiet. His fingers were curled in a death grip around Ginny's wand, his heart pounding traitorously in his chest. Too loud. This was a fool's errand, he realized now. Even if he could train his face to remain passive and even into something that passed for confidence, just one dip into Harry's thoughts would tell Voldemort everything the man needed to know about the terror roiling beneath Harry's calm facade.

Harry just prayed he could pass that terror off for fear of the Dark Lord himself, and not of the insane task he had been assigned by the members of the Order.

Harry closed his eyes and allowed his mind to nudge at Voldemort's. His jaw clenched at the momentary pain in his scar—still as furious as ever, Harry could see—but felt something in his gut tug toward the large room at the end of the hall, the one where Voldemort held his meetings. Fear gripped him as Harry let go of the connection as quickly as he had established it. If Voldemort was in that room, did that mean he was surrounded by Death Eaters as well? Would Harry have to have this conversation under the weight of dozens of cruel, judgmental eyes that belonged to murderers and criminals?

Well, Harry thought as he glanced about the hall, there was no turning back now. Perhaps Voldemort would kill him quickly. It was the most he could hope for.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Harry walked slowly to the door, placed a shaking hand on the brass knob, and pushed it open.

There was a soft rustle as dozens of heads turned to stare at him.

It seemed as though every member of Voldemort's circle of followers were present, at least over fifty of them, perhaps even seventy-five. The long table had vanished to make room for them all, and they filled the center of the room, a dark mass of black cloaks and bad intentions.

Some of them were gaping openly at Harry, gasping and pointing. Others were jeering at him, whispering to each other. A few looked genuinely frightened.

But Harry did not have eyes for any of them. His gaze was drawn like a magnet to the end of the room, which became more visible as Voldemort's followers began to part to allow a clear path from the door to the opposite side of the drawing room. The throne that had sat at the end of the table was now sitting alone—alone, save for the tall figure standing in front of it.

Voldemort's back was turned to him. He did not turn around at the sound of Harry's entrance. He merely stood, still and tall and dangerous, like a cobra before it strikes. White skin, black robes, perfection. The center of the world, the universe.

Harry's universe.

Harry had never considered the Dark Lord more terrifying than he did right at that moment, and the man had not even looked at him yet.

"Itty bitty Potter's all alone now!"

"No one to save your sorry hide now, Potter!"

"What's the matter, Potter? Tired of running?"

The words cut through his defenses like tight swipes of a knife, and Harry felt his cheeks burn under the onslaught of insults. His legs had turned to gelatin, and he forgot how to breathe as he forced himself to hold his gaze steady, an unexpected maelstrom of emotions crashing over him that had nothing to do with the Death Eaters. Voldemort's still form inspired in Harry both hatred and affection, anger and comfort—but most of all, an overwhelming amount of sorrow and regret for the miles of broken trust that stretched between them now.

"Harry Potter." Those two words, softly spoken, silenced the murmurs and the jeers as effectively as a spell. Voldemort stepped around to face Harry in a slow movement, blood red eyes pinning Harry where he stood with a magic that did not require wands.

Harry forced himself to breathe, to not look away.

"To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Harry's mouth was dry, his mind a mess of emotions and thoughts that refused to be strung together coherently. He had prepared something to say for this moment - some sort of defense of his actions, an explanation of why he had returned - but his mind seemed to be horribly empty of anything useful.

"I came back," Harry said finally, sounding very small in the big room. His voice did not carry as Voldemort's did; it did not sweep a commanding silence over their captive audience.

There was laughter and hissing from the crowd that stretched between them.

Voldemort did not join the laughter. "That much is clear." His eyes flashed with the power behind them, and the wrath behind that power. He stared intently at Harry from across the room, through the path the Death Eaters had created. "A real answer, if you'd please."

Harry swallowed, licked his lips. He was drowning in the many eyes hinging on his words, in the scarlet pools that consumed him. "I didn't want to leave."

A humorless chuckle, terrifying and void of all emotion. "Oh, yes, I had forgotten - you were so _eager _to return to my side when I came to retrieve you yesterday."

There was a fresh spike of pain in Harry's scar, followed by more hissing and jeers from the crowd. But Harry found that the reaction of the Death Eaters was drowned out by his own anger, heavy and strong. "You tried to kill Ginny," he said, not bothering to hide the acusation in his voice.

Voldemort snarled, and Harry felt the Dark Lord's fury flare up hotly on the other side of their connection, flames that licked dangerously close to Harry's own mind. A flicker of fear rose in Harry's chest, and he was very aware of the step that Voldemort took forward, the exact amount of space between them in the long drawing room.

"And I see now that death was a far too painless punishment for that harlot." Voldemort seemed so tall in that moment, his robes black against his pale skin, standing high above everyone else. Harry found it hard to believe that this man had ever crumbled beneath his touch, surrendered himself to Harry's gentle kisses, and his heart broke a little at the thought. "Thank you for making that clear to me, Potter - I will be sure to rectify that the next time I encounter her."

"She was trying to protect me!" Harry's voice was rising, but there was nothing to be done for it - he was gripping to his anger like a lifeboat in the sea of Voldemort's blood-red eyes, knowing he would drown if he relinquished for even just a second. "You promised," his voice caught, but he plowed onward, "you promised that you wouldn't hurt anyone trying to protect me."

"The Dark Lord owes you nothing!" Harry hadn't noticed Bellatrix before, but now she came stumbling out of the crowd. Her face was flushed with rage as she rounded on Harry, standing smack between Harry and Voldemort. "You foolish, arrogant little swine! Master, let me - " She swirled around to face Voldemort, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes wild. "Let me hurt him, let me make him _suffer_, _please_ - "

"Bellatrix! Remember yourself!" And here came Snape, striding out of the crowd after the madwoman, never passing up an opportunity to correct those around him. Harry's resentment for the man was quickly curbed, however, when he noticed how drawn the other man's face looked, and - _wow _- the angry red gash that had been sewn together across his right cheek. When the hell had that happened?

Snape turned burning, vicious eyes on Harry then, and the boy felt himself recoil from the hatred he saw there. Whatever had happened to Snape, his former professor blamed Harry for it, that much was clear.

Snarling, Snape turned back to Bellatrix. "The boy is the Dark Lord's to kill, or must I remind you?"

Harry's breath caught, the fear that had plagued his thoughts for the past day and night coming back to hit him full force. Now that he was here, standing before the Dark Lord and his followers, it had been easy to muster that foolish confidence that had propelled him through so many impossible situations, but the reminder in Snape's words brought back Harry's prior certainty that Voldemort would have sent a killing curse his way as soon as he'd stepped through the threshold of Malfoy Manor.

"He won't." The words tumbled out before Harry could stop them, more an assurance to himself than anyone else, and Harry's heart pounded furiously against his ribcage as he glared venomously back at Snape. "He won't." He didn't look away from Snape's beady black eyes, knowing that if he so much as glanced in Voldemort's direction, his confidence would collapse like a rotting, decrepit old building in the face of a bulldozer.

But then Voldemort was striding forward, robes billowing behind him, pushing past Snape and Bellatrix with a sweep of his arms. His eyes were on fire, burning Harry from the inside out, and Harry felt his courage evaporate in the heat of the Dark Lord's gaze.

"And what makes you certain, Potter?"

A deadly silence had fallen over the room as Voldemort suddenly raised his hand in a swift motion, his fingers curling around thin air. Harry's body was thrown backward, hit by an invisible force, and a moment later he was dangling against the wall, his toes scraping the ground as he kicked frantically, struggling for breath beneath invisible fingers. His wand fell limply from his hand.

_That was quick_.

"Tell me, Harry," Voldemort hissed and squeezed his fingers; Harry gave a choked cry as he wriggled against the wall. "What is stopping me from taking your life right this very minute?"

Harry's mind was racing, producing a variety of answers, only a few of which were fit to say aloud, none of which he could actually say for the fingers pressed precariously against his windpipe. _Because you promised. Because I'm your Horcrux. Because you love me._

Perhaps Voldemort heard these words flying through Harry's troubled thoughts, for a few quick strides forward later and real, solid cold fingers were closed around Harry's throat. Voldemort's wild eyes were only inches from Harry's own now, and the Dark Lord's breath was hot against Harry's mouth.

"_I have no use for a disobedient Horcrux, Harry_," Voldemort hissed in Parseltongue. "_You were a fool to return here_."

Voldemort released his fingers and Harry crumpled at the man's feet, his knees screaming at the shock of the hard tile colliding with his kneecaps, his desperate lungs gulping in air. Voldemort's feet were bare against the tile, Harry noticed absentmindedly as he coughed and gasped against the floor. He found himself wondering if the man's toes were cold.

"If you'll recall, I offered you a quick and painless death once," Voldemort said softly. Harry could not bring himself to look up at him. He was shaking, trembling, broken on the ground. The fear was intoxicating. There was a swish of robes, and then Voldemort was crouching beside him, gentle fingers brushing against Harry's chin. The boy blinked back watery eyes as he looked up at Voldemort, feeling betrayed and hurt, and was not surprised to find the ruby eyes devoid of the silver Harry had come to know over the past few weeks. "I'm sorry to say that the time for that is long past."

_He's going to kill me now_, Harry realized as a tear rolled down his cheek, the product of his suffocation more than any emotion he was feeling at the moment. _He's going to kill me, and he's going to make me suffer first_.

"I never wanted this," Voldemort murmured, his voice so soft that Harry was sure only he could hear. "But don't you see that you jeopardize my life? You know too much, Harry." Cool fingertips brushed tenderly against Harry's scar. Harry's eyes fluttered shut in response. "You are dangerous to me in more ways than you realize. I turned a blind eye to you, and you betrayed me. I cannot allow that to happen again."

Harry's eyes remained shut as he focused on the cold marble under his fingers, the lingering kiss of the Dark Lord's touch that still haunted the skin of his forehead. _He's going to kill me_, Harry thought again, a mantra - it was all he could seem to think. The cool tip of a wand pressed hard against Harry's temple, and the mantra seemed to double in its pace.

"I'm going to ask you one more time." Voldemort pressed the wand a little harder against Harry's temple. Harry couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. _He's going to kill me, he's going to kill me. _"Why did you come here?"

_Why did you come here?_

The explanation he had prepared, the list of reasons, the mission - all of it came rushing back into his head with the speed of a rushing train. Harry's eyes flew open, met Voldemort's with sudden, unwavering confidence. The room was silent save for Harry's breathing, which was still harsh from the treatment his throat had been accorded just a few moments before.

Harry sat up slowly, until his eyes were on level with Voldemort's own. The wand moved with him, still pressing against his temple.

"I want to join you."

Harry steeled his gaze against Voldemort's, registered the momentary flicker of surprise in Voldemort's eyes with terrified pleasure. The Dark Lord did not speak, so Harry continued, fear making his insides swirl.

"I had been considering it for a while before they came and took me away from you, and seeing them again only reinforced what I had already been thinking. They're fools for defying you. _I _was a fool for defying you." It was amazing how natural the words sounded, flowing from his lips in spite of or perhaps even fuelled by the terror churning in his stomach. Harry held his gaze steady, putting as much meaning into his eyes as he could. "You're too powerful for them. For me. Let me join you."

The silence was suffocating, and Voldemort's face was unreadable. A pale mask of control, and yet there was something behind his eyes, a flicker of some unidentified emotion. Harry clung to it desperately.

The wand against his temple lessened in its pressure slightly, dragged down his jaw to press even harder against the artery beneath his ear. Harry's breath caught, but he did not look away.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "And what makes you think, Harry Potter, that I still have any desire for you to join me?"

Harry blinked. He hadn't expected that one. Joining the Dark side had been all Voldemort had spoken of over the past month. Voldemort had been consumed with the idea, had brought it up at every possible opportunity. And in the end, it was all Harry had to offer him, this man who could not love.

Fear sprung up bitterly in Harry's throat. "I will help you," Harry said, sounding a little more desperate than he'd meant to. "They'll bend to you easier if I'm on your side."

Voldemort sneered. "You believe that I care how easily they will bend? Every one of them will die, Harry; it does not concern me how quickly I am able to end their lives."

Harry's heart was beating a tattoo against his ribcage, which suddenly felt very fragile inside of him. "I don't believe you," Harry said, feeling daring in the face of death. "They still have an influence in the Ministry, and we both know it." Harry, in fact, had absolutely no idea if this were true. "And it will be helpful in getting the wizarding world in general to come to your side as well. Dictators running through scare tactics eventually get overthrown."

Voldemort's face was still unreadable. "Need I remind you that I am not a Hufflepuff? I am the most powerful wizard in the world, Potter. I have no need of their loyalty."

Harry's mouth felt very dry. He was very aware of the many eyes watching them, enraptured with the scene before them. The Dark Lord and the boy savior, mortal enemies, kneeling together on the ground. Did they know? Had they any idea of what had transpired between them, of how much had changed? Did they see the longing in Harry's eyes, how much Harry wanted to reach up and touch Voldemort's lips and remind him of the nights they had spent together? Did they know that Harry could understand every small movement in the Dark Lord's face, could predict the emotion carefully hidden beneath the quirk of an eyebrow, the flash of scarlet eyes, without even needing to touch the connection between their minds?

There was a look of uncertainty in the man's eyes now that belied his cruel and detached tone of voice. It planted hope, small and dim, in Harry's chest.

Voldemort dug the wand a little more firmly into Harry's throat. "Is that all you have, Harry?"

"You'd have me." Harry's voice was very small. He tried to channel his thoughts and feelings into his eyes - the emptiness he had felt since he'd been away from Voldemort's side, the betrayal he had experienced when Voldemort had turned his wand on Ginny, the hurt and panic that had torn through his chest when he realized he would not be at the cottage when Voldemort returned on his birthday. "I'd be there. Doesn't that count for anything?"

Something broke in Voldemort's eyes, then. A quick succession of heated emotions passed across his face, too quickly for Harry to distinguish one from the other, and then the wand disappeared from beneath his jaw. It was quickly replaced by Voldemort's hands, seizing Harry's arms by the sleeves, dragging him to his feet.

"The meeting is dismissed," Voldemort snarled. Harry's eyes widened in surprise. Over the Dark Lord's shoulder, he saw Snape looking horrified, Bellatrix looking livid - so many faces, all different varieties of confusion and anger.

And then there was a swirl of black cloak, fingers tightening against Harry's upper arms, a spark of pain flashing in his scar - and finally, darkness.

* * *

><p>"How are you doing this to me?"<p>

As the dimly lit room materialized around him, Harry found himself pushed violently to the ground before he could even catch his breath. He tumbled backward across the floor, his fingers scrabbling for purchase against a plush rug. He noticed vaguely that there was the large shape of a bed to his left, and then the Dark Lord was looming above him, eyes bright red in the dark, and Harry could look at nothing else.

"For sixteen years, I try to kill you."

There was a hard kick in Harry's side; pain exploded in his ribcage.

"I cannot. So I offer you a position by my side, higher than any of my followers, a partner."

Another kick, this time accompanied by a burst of magical force; Harry was thrown backward across the floor, his head colliding hard with a solid wall behind him. He registered dimly that there was a hot pounding in the back of his skull.

"I become weak for you. I am … _affectionate_. And still, you refuse."

Invisible fingers around his neck, dragging him upward, and then Harry was pinned against the wall again, by his shoulders this time.

"You betray me, thrice. You drive me to the brink of insanity and back again." Voldemort stalked forward, eyes burning into Harry's so fiercely that the boy could nearly feel the heat against his face. "Then you waltz among my Death Eaters, nearly humiliate me before all of my followers, have the audacity to finally take me up on my request - and I still cannot bring myself to harm you."

Voldemort's hand came forward and his fingers hovered in the air beside Harry's throat, curling, not quite brushing against his skin. His face was contorted with fury. Harry's breath caught, his eyelashes fluttering as he anticipated the grip of the Dark Lord's fingers around his throat again. But nothing came.

"What is this magic that you have over me?" Voldemort hissed at last. He looked distraught, and Harry noticed with surprise that the Dark Lord's fingers were trembling in front of Harry's face. "Why can't I kill you, even when you've betrayed me so many times of your own accord?"

Harry blinked, slowly processing this information. His eyes widened as the understanding finally dawned upon him. "You think I left of my own free will," he realized, horror and anger twisting his face into a scowl. "You really thought that I left on my own! After everything that happened!"

"You must have found a way to contact them." Anger had surged back into Voldemort's voice; the man was snarling again, his face very close to Harry's own, but his fingers still had not come up to choke Harry's breath again. "There is no way that they would have found you otherwise. You couldn't have reached them from my home, but Severus - Severus confessed to letting you out of his sight during your excursion in the village. You must have found a way to seek them out."

Harry's face clenched in horror. There was another blow for which he had been unprepared; and before Harry could wipe the horror from his face, Voldemort had seen it there, smug recognition blooming in his red eyes.

"Things have changed," Harry said desperately, but it was too late; Voldemort had already turned away from him, and Harry's shoulders slackened as the Dark Lord released the spell binding him to the wall. The boy rubbed his sore shoulder tenderly, even as panic welled deep in his chest. "It was a mistake, I know it was, but things are different now."

"Different?" Voldemort laughed hollowly, his back still turned to Harry. "Perhaps that is why you hurried back to my side so eagerly when I went out of my way to retrieve you yesterday?"

Harry scowled, fists clenching. "What the hell did you expect? You nearly killed Ginny!"

Voldemort's back stiffened visibly. "Watch your tongue, Potter," he hissed without turning around. "I will break you."

But this only served to anger Harry further. Taking a step forward, Harry drew himself up as tall as he could and glared full force at the back of Voldemort's head. He decided it was considerably easier to glare at the Dark Lord when the Dark Lord wasn't glaring back. "She was trying to protect me," Harry said, echoing his earlier accusation. "You specifically promised that - "

"I know what I promised!" Voldemort snapped, whirling around to round on Harry. The boy shrank back as quickly as he had blown himself up, his courage failing him. His eyes darted nervously to the wand in Voldemort's fingers, noticing for the first time that it was not the wand that Voldemort had been sporting for as long as Harry had known him. Voldemort raised the wand in front of him, his teeth bared furiously. "She angered me! I wasn't thinking about any promises!"

"Then perhaps you should learn how to control yourself," Harry said hotly.

"_Control_?" Voldemort repeated incredulously. "_I _must learn control?" He laughed coldly, a sound that was completely devoid of any humor. "Then how will you explain that lecherous display last night?"

Harry faltered, lips moving soundlessly for a long moment. He didn't _have _an explanation for that. "It was … a mistake," he said at last, his voice small.

Voldemort glowered at him, eyes flashing dangerously. "You realize that I have killed better men for lesser 'mistakes' than the many you've made over the course of the past day. Perhaps I could excuse the way she attacked your mouth at that hole that endlessly spawns your little red-headed friends, but your willingness was more than abundant in her bed last night."

"In her bed?" Harry repeated, flushing at the suggestion. "She kissed me, she was sick - that was all - "

"Ah, but you enjoyed it, didn't you, Harry?" Voldemort drew closer to him, eyes wild. For the first time, Harry truly noticed the stone walls, the big bed with familiar satin sheets, and realized with a jolt that it was here that Voldemort had taken him that fateful night Harry had first opened the locket. "Perhaps that is what you've really longed for all along - a female, soft curves and pretty smiles, professing her precious _love _for you left and right - "

"I hated it!" Harry yelled, fingernails biting into his palms, his face screwed up with desperation. "I hated it, it was horrible, and I came back here now, to you - doesn't that mean anything?"

"You enjoyed it," Voldemort hissed, still advancing on him; Harry backed up automatically until his shoulders nudged against the wall again, and there was no where left to go. Voldemort's eyes were blazing with something almost feral. "I felt it, there in your mind." Voldemort was very close now, and Harry was acutely aware of the small amount of space between them, the way that Voldemort's robes brushed against Harry's jeans with every slight movement. It was suddenly very hard to breathe. "But she doesn't know that I own every inch of you. You are mine, Harry Potter."

"I am no one's but my own," Harry managed through gritted teeth, his breathing very short.

Voldemort's hand flew up to clench through Harry's messy hair, hard, yanking his head back forcefully to meet cruel scarlet eyes. "You are mine," Voldemort said again. "Did you truly think she could hold a candle to me?"

"She kissed me," Harry insisted angrily, trying to yank free from Voldemort's fingers, but his grip was too strong. "And I imagined you there instead - there is only you, it's only ever been you, right from the beginning. Don't you know that?"

Voldemort's eyes flared, very close to Harry's face, and the fingers tightened even further in his hair. "And yet you allowed her to touch you," Voldemort said darkly, his voice as soft and deadly as Harry had ever heard it. "You allowed her, and you enjoyed it."

Harry squirmed uncomfortably, his scalp burning. "Only because I was imagining you," Harry answered, his voice small. His throat felt vulnerable and exposed. Voldemort trailed the tip of the unfamiliar wand lightly down Harry's jaw again, and Harry could not suppress a shiver.

"And how did she compare?" Voldemort said softly, letting the tip of the wand dip into the hollow of Harry's throat, right above his collarbone. The boy swallowed and felt the magical instrument bob with his Adam's apple.

"Pardon?" Harry was nearly stammering, suddenly humbled in the face of Voldemort's power, which thrummed at the wandpoint at the base of his throat. The darkness of the room softened Voldemort's features, and Harry was reminded horribly and inconveniently of the first night that they had spent together in this room.

"How did she compare?" Voldemort said again, his voice growing silkier with every word. The wand pressed a little harder against his throat, his windpipe. "I can't help but wonder how she kissed you, Harry." The Dark Lord was looking down at Harry with darkening eyes, half-lidded in a manner that Harry did not associate with either the threat of death or being held at wandpoint against a wall.

The boy's tongue darted out to make a circuit of suddenly too-dry lips, and he took a shuddery breath. "I'm afraid I don't … know what you mean."

Voldemort's eyes flashed with irritation, but then the wand was travelling upward to brush lightly against Harry's mouth, and Harry forgot to feel afraid. "For example," Voldemort murmured, "did she kiss you softly, tenderly, relishing every last drop of the golden boy's young innocence?"

And then, before Harry could grasp what was happening, Voldemort was lowering his mouth to brush very lightly against Harry's own. The touch of his absent lover sent sparks of electricity running through Harry's bloodstream, and the boy melted against him, fingers coming up to clutch weakly at Voldemort's robes as the hand in his hair smoothed out to a gentle palm, cupping the side of his head. And Voldemort kissed him, gentle, tender, affectionate kisses, kisses meant to heal, to soothe, to express care and endearment. Harry drank them up eagerly, soaking in the sensation of the Dark Lord's lips, smooth against his mouth, and he wondered how he could have ever wanted to turn away from this.

Voldemort pulled away all too soon, leaving Harry dazed and wobbling against the wall. He blinked up at the Dark Lord with wide, confused eyes, almost having forgotten what Voldemort had asked him in the first place.

"Or did she kiss you passionately, impatiently, demanding your touch, your skin, your tongue?"

And Voldemort swooped down on him again, but this time his mouth met Harry's roughly, pinning him against the wall with his body. Harry's lips parted easily to the familiar touch of Voldemort's tongue, but the Dark Lord had never kissed him quite like this before - as though he were trying to possess Harry straight through his mouth, to steal his breath and his soul away with the hot, practiced swipes of his tongue across Harry's own. Harry felt his knees turning to water beneath him, but he was held up by the hot, forceful press of Voldemort's body, holding him tight between the wall and the strong body before him. Voldemort's fingers were clutching at Harry's hair again, although not quite as painfully as before, and Harry whimpered under the physical assault, his head spinning as Voldemort's tongue stole away any feeble protests that had flitted through his mind.

The fingers in his hair gently coaxed his head back, baring his neck even further. Harry was unable to resist, unwilling to risk a move that might encourage Voldemort to stop what he was doing and go back to threatening Harry's life.

Voldemort did pull away, then, but only to drag his lips hotly along Harry's jaw, coming to brush teasingly against Harry's ear. "And I wonder if she made you flush and whimper," Voldemort murmured darkly against Harry's earlobe. "Did you squirm so beneath her touch? Did she know exactly where to press her lips and fingertips to make you cry out?"

Harry had only enough time to think that, of course she didn't, she hadn't had time to, Voldemort had made sure of that - before Voldemort's lips were descending on that spot just below his ear, right where his jaw met his neck, and Harry took in a very sharp breath, struggling not to moan. _He _hadn't even known he was that sensitive there - since when had Voldemort paid so much attention to Harry's reactions? And then Voldemort nipped at that very same patch of skin, followed by a swirl of his tongue, and Harry melted.

Fingers came up to scrabble at the buttons of Harry's shirt, and Voldemort trailed kisses down Harry's throat as he made short work of Harry's shirt - coincidentally one of the same that Harry had acquired the day he'd nearly ruined everything. Voldemort began to nip at Harry's collarbone as Harry's shirt fell open, baring his naked chest to Voldemort's hungry, roving hands. Harry's head fell back against the wall, his breaths coming in short pants, as Voldemort's fingers ran almost desperately up and down Harry's sides, along the smooth planes of his chest, down the quivering muscles of his stomach, as though checking to make sure that nothing had changed since they had been separated.

"Oh," Harry whimpered when cruel fingers stopped to rub and twist at a nipple, his back arching up off of the wall as Voldemort's lips followed. "Oh."

"Was it so difficult for you to breathe?" Voldemort whispered hotly against Harry's chest, which was trembling beneath the Dark Lord's mouth, heaving with his labored breaths. "Did your skin quiver beneath her kiss?"

"_Oh_," was all Harry could say in response, because now Voldemort's hands had slid down Harry's back to his buttocks, running down to rub the backs of his thighs. Without warning, Voldemort rose to his full height and tightened his grip on Harry's thighs, pulling Harry up and off of the ground to press his body full length against Voldemort's. Harry's breath caught in surprise, his fingers clutching at Voldemort's shoulders as he was lifted off of his feet. Before Harry could even process what was happening, however, Voldemort was moving, turning around and carrying Harry across the room before abruptly releasing him, sending Harry tumbling backward onto the bed.

Voldemort was kneeling over him a heartbeat later with the speed of a striking snake, hands on either side of Harry's head. His eyes were so dark they were practically black, hot coals in the dim room. "And what addictive little noises did she manage to coax from your lips?" he murmured, his fingers playing across Harry's bottom lip again, eyes drinking in Harry's mouth like it was the most fascinating sight in the world. "Did you bite your lip and whimper, hold yourself back?"

Harry shuddered violently against the sheets as Voldemort descended upon his chest again, licking and kissing his way down to Harry's stomach, which was taut and trembling with tension. Voldemort paused to dip his tongue into Harry's navel, and then he was trailing his tongue hotly along the skin just above Harry's waistband, and Harry really _did _whimper then, willing his hips to stay still as Voldemort's fingers smoothed up and down the inside of Harry's thighs.

The palm of Voldemort's hand slowly moved upward to rub tantalizingly against Harry's length, which was covered by far too many layers of clothing, and Harry let out all of his breath in a sharp exhale through his nose.

"Or could she have lured something more carnal out of those pretty lips of yours?" Voldemort murmured against Harry's stomach, palm still rubbing, rubbing, rubbing against Harry's member. "Did she manage to make you moan, Harry? Did your body arc like a bow, taut with desire for her fingers, her mouth?"

He whispered something else, a spell, perhaps, because a moment later Harry's shirt was gone from his shoulders and his pants had disappeared in that infuriating way they always seemed to whenever Voldemort was around. Harry could not find it in himself to complain, however, because Voldemort's fingers were against his bare thighs now, Voldemort's lips were trailing along the curls at the base of his freed erection, and Harry's teeth dug into his bottom lip so hard he nearly drew blood because there was nothing in the world that felt better than the way that the Dark Lord touched him.

Perhaps Voldemort heard this particular sentiment flitting through Harry's mind, for Harry felt the distinct shape of a smirk against his pelvic bone. And then there was hot breath ghosting across his cock, followed by a wet tongue licking a long hot line right up the underside of his erection, and a low, keening noise escaped Harry's throat, his cock jumping against the mouth hovering at the head of it.

"_Ah_ - " Harry managed to get out, and then that mouth was all around him, enveloping him in wet, tight, torturous heat, and it was all Harry could do to keep his hips from rolling right back up into it. His fingers groped desperately at the sheets, his mouth dropped into a soundless 'o,' because this was absolute torture, there was no other word for it - the Dark Lord was working him so _slow_ly, his tongue playing across the head of his prick expertly, and Voldemort knew exactly what to do, exactly how to flick his tongue and where to do it in order to melt Harry's brains leaking onto the floor.

Voldemort apparently wasn't satisfied with driving Harry to a state of utter incoherence, however, because now there was the teasing, slick pressure of a fingertip against Harry's entrance, and Harry could hardly remember how to breathe. The finger circled teasingly around his pucker, even as Voldemort's lips and tongue continued to slide up and down Harry's prick, and Harry couldn't help but let out a throaty groan, tossing his head to the side and burying his fingers in the sheets beneath him to keep from bucking up into the heat of the Dark Lord's mouth.

But then Voldemort actually _swallowed _him, all the way down to the root, and, holy hell, now he was humming around Harry's cock like some kind of horrible, hot human vibrator. Harry couldn't help it - the sensation set off a chain reaction that made his back arch up off the bed and his hips do a little dance across the bedclothes. And Voldemort, that bastard, he was smirking again; and just when Harry thought that this couldn't get any better - or worse, depending on which way he was looking at it - the finger fluttering across his entrance slid inside him without warning, curling easily to rub against his prostate as though he had a road map to lead Harry all the way to heaven.

Or hell, Harry thought as another finger joined the first one and Voldemort's mouth made its way up and down his erection again. Definitely hell, he decided when Voldemort began to fuck him with his fingers in earnest, angling his wrist to hit that spot inside of him with every single thrust. As Harry had learned long ago, nothing that felt this good could possibly be the right thing to do.

Voldemort withdrew his fingers abruptly, his mouth vanishing soundlessly a moment after, leaving Harry naked and flushed and trembling on the bed. The boy blinked his green eyes open blearily, having been squeezing them shut against the onslaught of sensations, just in time to see Voldemort wave his hand and vanish his own robes as well. Harry's eyes widened, drinking in the sight of the Dark Lord's perfectly pale body, the white expanse of his chest and shoulders, and finally the considerable evidence of the other man's arousal.

"I'm still so very curious, Harry," Voldemort murmured, sliding his palms down Harry's thighs. Harry's breath caught in his throat as Voldemort's hands hooked underneath his knees, lifting his legs into the air and over his shoulders. "Could she make your body writhe across a bed?" The Dark Lord positioned himself, pressed the hot head of his prick against the pucker of Harry's shuddering entrance; Harry exhaled sharply, felt himself tremble. "Does she know what ecstasy looks like when it twists across your face?" Voldemort leaned forward, increasing the pressure as he lowered his face close to Harry's, his breath hot against Harry's mouth. "Does she know how to make you scream yourself hoarse?"

And, oh, _god_, Voldemort was pushing inside of him, burning beautiful pressure, splitting his body and his soul open and leaving everything bare for Voldemort to see. Harry held his breath as Voldemort came to a halt, pushed all the way to the hilt, and then released it in a soft cry as the Dark Lord suddenly pulled out and pushed back home again.

Voldemort tangled one hand in Harry's hair, the other supporting his weight as he gave another sharp thrust, angling himself this time so that stars exploded behind Harry's eyelids. The boy cried out again, louder this time, arching his back so that his hips met Voldemort's thrusts.

"Or does that ability … still belong solely … to _me_?" Voldemort hissed, punctuating his words with rough, long thrusts that made Harry bend his back and curl his toes and yell.

"Yes," Harry babbled, his voice hoarse from almost continuous moaning as Voldemort increased the pace and the force of his thrusts. "Oh, yes, god, yes, _please _- "

"Say that you're mine," Voldemort growled, thrusting in hard and rubbing the head of his prick against Harry's prostate. Harry gave a keening cry, eyes screwing shut, and Voldemort yanked at Harry's hair, rubbed even harder, making Harry's head spin with heat and sensation and fireworks. "_Say it._"

"I'm yours," Harry nearly sobbed, his hips undulating almost uncontrollably against Voldemort's pelvis, his body shaking like a leaf. "Only yours."

Voldemort buried his mouth in Harry's neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses full of tongue and teeth against that place beneath his ear as he fell into a steady rhythm. "No one else will ever touch you again," Voldemort hissed into Harry's ear, his fingers untangling from Harry's hair to slip between them, curling around Harry's needy erection. The boy gave a loud cry in response, toes curling in the cool air as Voldemort's fingers tightened around him and set a punishing tempo up and down his cock.

"No one," Harry agreed between gasps, his fingers trying to find purchase on Voldemort's shoulder blades as the man continued to pound into him, driving him closer and closer, his hand matching the rhythm of his thrusts on Harry's cock.

The Dark Lord's fingers twisted around Harry's prick then, his thumb swirling skillfully around the head, and Harry's orgasm was ripped from him with a great shudder and a swear. A few more rough thrusts inside of him, and then Voldemort shook violently against him as well, giving a strangled groan that sounded suspiciously like Harry's name into the side of Harry's neck.

Harry gradually came back down to earth, his breathing slowing down and his heartbeat eventually following it. Voldemort remained inside of him longer than he usually did, his hands absentmindedly petting Harry's head and neck and his breath hot as it calmed against Harry's ear.

"Bloody hell," Harry said eloquently after a few long moments, his fingers still smoothing along Voldemort's back. He noticed with a slight blush that his nails had left red tracks along the pearly white skin of Voldemort's shoulders.

Voldemort raised himself onto his elbows and glared reproachfully at Harry. "I do hope you've learnt your lesson."

Harry nearly laughed, suddenly feeling almost hysterical with fear when he recalled everything that had happened. "Well, to answer your questions - no, to almost all of them." He looked away shyly. "Except for the bit about no one ever touching me again."

"That part wasn't a question," Voldemort responded dryly, withdrawing his softening prick and leaving Harry feeling rather empty.

"I really was imagining you, you know," Harry said, and winced at the venomous look that Voldemort gave him. "I mean it. I'm sorry. I could never feel that way about someone else. Especially Ginny." He pulled a face.

Voldemort sent him a withering glare as he sat up, waving his hand irritably and vanishing the spunk that was drying on Harry's stomach. "You speak as though you have a choice in the matter."

Harry sat up, leaning back against his hands. "I take it that you're not going to off me just yet, then?" He forced a laugh that sounded a little hysterical. Voldemort did not stop glowering at him.

"I already told you that I cannot harm you."

Harry swallowed and scratched at the back of his neck, feeling exceedingly nervous. "Right." He watched as the Dark Lord stood up and summoned his imposing Dark Lord robes, which looked a lot less imposing when they were crumpled on a bedroom floor.

Now that the whole question of Voldemort murdering him was out of the way, Harry's thoughts wandered quickly back to what was going to happen next. He honestly had not thought this far; most of his energy had gone to preparing an explanation for his sudden change of heart, which he had forgotten as soon as he had stepped into Malfoy Manor as it was. Speaking of which -

"So will you let me join you, then?" Harry posed the question as casually as he could when his insides felt like they were about to boil over with fright. "My lord?" he added cheekily as a second thought.

This had been the right thing to say. Voldemort turned to him with the slightest glint of amusement in his eye, one that Harry could almost fancy was a delicate shade of silver.

"Do you realize what you're asking?" the Dark Lord said as he buttoned up his shirt.

"Yes," Harry responded immediately, sitting up a little straighter in the bed and trying not to feel awkward for his nakedness.

"You will join me, stand by my side, fight for my cause?" Voldemort was at the edge of the bed now, his expression thoughtful as his eyes searched Harry's face. Harry called forth images of his Muggle family to the front of his mind, remembering the pain they had caused him as a child just in case Voldemort were to go prying in Harry's thoughts.

"Yes," Harry said again, covering up his guilt with memories of Ron and Hermione smiling at him, memories that Voldemort was sure not to venture near. _For Lupin_, Harry thought as he remembered how grateful Ron had been whenever Harry bought him candies on the train. _For Tonks_, Harry thought as he remembered how beautifully Hermione had glowed at the Yule Ball. _For Sirius and Malfoy and Mad-Eye and Mum and Dad_.

Voldemort walked to the side of the bed so that he was standing right in front of Harry. His eyes were leaping with pleasure, and he smiled darkly as he raised a hand to brush Harry's bangs off of his forehead, press his fingertips tenderly against Harry's scar.

"I will never lose you again, my Horcrux," Voldemort said softly, his finger trailing down Harry's cheek to cup his jaw.

And if Harry felt guilty as he leaned forward to wind his arms about Voldemort's neck, he did not need to conjure any bittersweet memories of his best friends. His guilt was simply peeled away, forgotten, with the soft press of Voldemort's lips. For when Voldemort kissed him, it was so easy to forget that anything else existed outside of the warm space that was the Dark Lord's arms.


	27. V:1

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

A/N: Thank you for your support everyone! You guys are really the best readers in the world. I apologize, once again, for the wait. Life has been very crazy lately. Your reviews and kind words make it more than worth it though. Thank you also to my very good friend LordVoldemort777 for beta'ing this for me. She's started her own lovely HPLV fic, Reflections, which I highly recommend you check out! :) Once again, I am very sorry for the wait, thank you thank you thank you for your reviews, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

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><p>PART V: THE FALL<p>

* * *

><p>1.<p>

The pub was loud, hot and dark - too dark to recognize one face from the next, but fortunately light enough that one could make his way through the haze of smoke and shadowy figures without knocking into too many faceless bodies. It stank, too; the vague smell of piss was only overwhelmed by the stench of alcohol and body odor.

It was, all in all, not a place in which Severus Snape ever expected to find himself.

Wearing his customary tight-lipped scowl, Snape reluctantly left the safety of the front door and joined the shadows along the edge of the wall. The thud of the door closing behind him was lost in the loud murmur of the pub - bad, too-loud music played by a group of long-haired, middle-aged men; patrons yelling and laughing at the bar; catcalls for the scantily-clad women wearing too much makeup that prowled the outskirts of the room; sticks clacking loudly against billiard balls, their colors muted in the smoke and poor lighting. Snape spared a perplexed glance for this last activity. He never would understand the peculiar customs of Muggles.

He found his quarry in the back, at one of the many round tables lining the rear wall. A tungsten light bulb dangled from the ceiling over the table, swinging gently with whatever floor-shaking activities were taking place on the floor above and flickering with every few seconds that passed. A truly splendid illustration of the wonders of Muggle technology.

Snape arrived at the table and curled his lip in greeting. The hooded man sitting at the table nodded stiffly.

"Severus," said the man.

"Lucius," Snape said in return, struggling to speak over the rowdy murmur of the pub. "It will never cease to amaze me how you manage to unearth such classy establishments."

"Sit and keep your voice down," Lucius hissed from behind clenched teeth, pulling his hood tighter over his head to hide every strand of his precious blond hair. No doubt he thought that the stench of Muggle in the air might taint its perfection. "You requested to meet me in a place where we would go uninterrupted."

Snape tried not to think about all the varieties of disgusting, puking, inebriated Muggle that had previously occupied this chair as he sat down across from Lucius. A man stumbled by them, mumbling incoherently and sloshing alcohol over the side of his tankard. Snape sneered and edged out of the path of the wayward ale before it could sully his best Muggle clothes. "Well you certainly went above and beyond."

Lucius shifted in his seat uncomfortably. It occurred to Snape that Lucius was even more ill-at-ease than Snape was at the moment. A Muggle whorehouse certainly was not a place that a pureblood aristocrat like Lucius Malfoy was accustomed to frequenting. _How the mighty have fallen. _Snape resisted the urge to sneer.

"Drinks?"

The grunt came from above them. Snape suddenly found himself in the shadow of a man he might have mistaken for a half-giant if he hadn't been sure that this was the least magical restaurant that he'd ever had the pleasure of patronizing.

The man looked over the pair of wizards distrustfully. Lucius seemed to stiffen even further in his seat, practically a living, breathing two-by-four.

"I'll have some ale," Snape said to the Muggle giant coolly. "And for you, Lucius?"

Any other man would have been frozen solid by the glare Lucius was bestowing upon him. Snape was quite accustomed to it.

"Wouldn't you like a drink?" Snape drawled when Lucius didn't reply. Lucius's lips nearly disappeared in the thin line that his mouth made.

"Don't be pretentious, Severus; you know that you did not ask me here to share a _drink_," Lucius hissed, barely audible, from behind his clenched teeth.

"But I insist," Snape said. "This fine pub was your recommendation, after all. Surely there's something you'd like to try?"

Something seemed to register in the undeniably small brain of their waiter, evidenced by the slow scowl overtaking his face. Perhaps Snape had misjudged the man; the Muggle really did have enough brain cells to recognize ridicule.

"I don't reckon I've e'er seen you 'round here before," the man said slowly, and Snape was briefly impressed that the Muggle could manage sentences that extended beyond monosyllabic grunts.

"We're tourists," Snape said politely, while Lucius seemed to struggle with an aneurysm across the table.

"My cust'mers o'er there don't like the looks 'a you," the half-giant growled warningly, jerking his head toward the bar. Sure enough, there was more than one shady-looking Muggle sending dark glances toward their table from the bar. "We're 'customed to trouble 'round these parts. I don't think I'd have the heart to get in their way if they wanted to start trouble with you. S'been so long since we had a healthy brawl."

Lucius seemed to have finally found his voice. "I'll have a whiskey as well. On the rocks, if you'd please."

"_If I'd please_," the great buffoon of a bartender repeated in a mocking falsetto. He bared his teeth before trudging away, grunting something near the bar that made the other patrons explode with laughter.

As soon as the man was out of earshot, Lucius rounded on Snape with a great snarl on his face, his eyes icy and angry under his hood.

"You asked me for a place where we would go undetected, and then you draw attention to us!" He looked truly livid; Snape had not seen this much anger in his face since that fateful day of the Order's attack on the manor. "Do you know how suspicious this would appear to the wrong pair of eyes? How would we explain that to the Dark Lord's new wand? I somehow doubt he would buy into the idea that we fancied meeting for a drink in the Muggle slums."

Snape, who had been delighting in Lucius' discomfort - after all, it had been so long since he had been able to happily make anyone squirm, since antagonizing his students had largely taken a backseat to keeping them alive and uninjured in the face of those horrible Carrow siblings - sobered up at this immediately.

"I merely thought that some alcohol might ease the gravity of the matters we will be discussing today."

Lucius' eyes intensified immediately, trying to read what Snape was about to tell him in the lines of the potion master's face. Snape refused to give him the satisfaction.

"It really is serious then," Lucius said after a long moment, his voice dropping and the anger fading from his face.

There was a pause as the brute of a waiter returned, slapping their drinks down on the table and giving Lucius' hooded robes a distasteful glance. Lucius glowered right back until the man all but fled from the table, looking as though he had just been doused in a bucket of ice water. From the small smirk tugging at Lucius' lips, perhaps he really had been.

Snape leaned forward, all pretenses of teasing and banter pushed aside. "It's about the Potter boy."

Lucius winced visibly. He took a small sip of his whiskey. "It always seems to be, doesn't it?"

Snape felt the hysterical urge to laugh. _You have no idea. _Snape leaned even closer, his voice very low. "He must be protected at all costs."

There was a loud chorus of laughter from the bar. Someone had fallen off their stool.

"That's what you wanted to tell me?" The anger had returned to Lucius' face. "I dragged us to some rathole pub in the darkest dredges of London so that you could tell me to protect Potter? Severus, the Dark Lord has insisted as much on the pain of death. The boy couldn't be anyplace safer. You would have to be mad to - "

"Bellatrix is going to make an attempt on his life," Severus interrupted him.

Lucius shut up predictably, mouth closing as he took in this information. "I suppose I should have expected that," Lucius said when he'd recovered. "But what does it matter? The Dark Lord would slit her throat in an instant if he detected even the slightest inkling of a plan to harm Potter."

"And she is well aware of this." Snape's pale fingers clenched around his tankard, from which he had still not taken a single sip. "Bellatrix is a clever woman, Lucius. Genius often brings about madness, or so it goes." _Look at our beloved master_, was the unspoken addendum to this statement. _And me_, Snape added bitterly. _I must be mad for attempting any of this_ _in the first place_. _Whatever happened to your brilliant sense of self-preservation, Severus?_ "She will find a way to elude the Dark Lord's watchful eye and get to the boy. She has made it her personal mission to kill him."

Lucius shook his head. "Even if she does, Severus - even if she manages to murder the whelp right from under the Dark Lord's no— er, you know what I mean - he will make her suffer for it. She'll be out of our hair, and all will be well." He gave Snape a strange look. "What concern of this is yours? You've hardly struck me as a great proponent of Bellatrix Lestrange's well-being in the past."

"It is not for Bellatrix that I worry," Snape ground out, hating the confession as it passed his lips. "It's Potter."

Lucius, who had been in the middle of a sip of whiskey, snorted in a way that was most undignified for a man of his reputation. Snape only kept himself from hexing him by convincing himself that Lucius was likely heavily influenced by the bad alcohol, or the substandard ambience of the pub, or perhaps the overall improbability of this claim - maybe even all three.

"Have you lost your mind?" Lucius said after a bout of coughing. He dabbed at the side of his smiling mouth with a handkerchief that had an elaborate _M _embroidered in the corner. "You despise the Potter boy. We all do."

Snape paused and looked about the room one last time. His eyes raked the unsavory patrons of the pub for anyone that looked even slightly out of place - someone that was listening too closely, someone with suspicious eyes that lingered too long on their small table with the flickering light bulb at the back of the room. He found no one.

Snape leaned forward and fixed his eyes firmly on the blond, his voice very soft and intense.

"Are you loyal to the Dark Lord, Lucius?"

Lucius nearly fell into another coughing fit again, but this time there was no humor in his ashen face, which had completely drained of color. His eyes widened, terror making his body go rigid in the seat again.

"Of course I am, Severus - is this some sort of test? I am faithful to only one master, and that is my lord, _our _lord, the Dark Lord -"

"Stop your blabbering, you fool," Snape spat. Lucius shut his mouth immediately. "I am not ignorant of the loathing that transforms your eyes whenever the Dark Lord turns his back. And I don't entirely believe that he is, either, so you might do well to temper your anger when you find yourself in his presence, no matter the direction of his gaze."

Lucius' eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "I - I don't - "

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Snape interrupted him, "and the only reason that the Dark Lord holds me in any higher regard than you is because I have a better handle on my emotions."

Lucius was silent for a few moments, his eyes still bulging, as he processed this information. Gradually, he relaxed in his chair, sagging with the realization that he was going to live another day after all. Someone was yelling by the billiard table, and Snape stiffened instinctively, listening; but a few snatches of the argument told him that it was something trivial, a bet or a gamble. Perhaps the pub would have its healthy brawl today after all.

"Why?" Lucius said after a pause, eyes regarding Snape with newfound suspicion.

A thousand thousand reasons were summoned into Snape's mind with startling swiftness. The first year students at Hogwarts this year, currently the guinea pigs of so many cruel hexes and curses for the older students under the Carrows' instruction. Sixteen-year-old Draco Malfoy sobbing hysterically in Snape's office, insisting that he couldn't go through with killing his headmaster. Harry Potter consistently and spectacularly facing what no child should ever have to encounter at age eleven, and then age twelve, and then ages thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. And, perhaps most of all, a pale, red-headed woman, beautiful green eyes that were typically so full of life and ferocity glassed over and dull, lying motionless on a nursery floor.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking that you are the only one who has known loss at the Dark Lord's hand, Lucius," Snape said bitterly.

Lucius seemed taken aback by the sudden darkening of Snape's features, and he blinked in confusion. "But what does any of this have to do with - "

"With Potter? It has _everything _to do with Potter," Snape hissed, leaning forward again. The yelling had escalated across the room, and although it made it more difficult for others to hear their conversation, it also made it more difficult for them to hear each other. "Contemplate the circumstances surrounding your present life. Is this truly how you would like to live? Licking the boots of the man who murdered your son until his uses for you have expired?"

The life seemed to leap back into Lucius' eyes, melting the ice there with fury. "The Dark Lord is … _good _to me," the Malfoy ground out. "He would never - "

"But wouldn't he?" Snape cut him off viciously. "Do you genuinely believe that the Dark Lord would not cast you aside as soon as the war has been won? He will no longer have any need for your manor; the entire world will be his oyster, and a sorry oyster it will be. And what of Narcissa? Would you stand to see her squashed beneath the Dark Lord's heel as he squashed your son?"

Lucius' eyes flared again, and Snape was afraid for a moment that he had stepped too far, that the blond was going to brandish his wand and attack him. But then the fire was gone, replaced by cold and cunning calculation. Triumph flared up in Snape's chest; this was the Lucius that Snape had known and hated and cherished since they were teenagers. He had succeeded.

"And Potter?" said Lucius, sounding more engaged than he had in weeks. "You've yet to explain how this concerns him."

"It was in the prophecy," Snape said, noticing that Lucius only flinched very minimally at the mention of the mission that he had botched so miserably. "Potter is the only one with the ability to truly defeat the Dark Lord."

Lucius snorted. "Defeat him where? In the bedroom? You can't tell me that you haven't noticed the eyes that they make at each other. Bellatrix is raving with envy every evening that they disappear together."

Snape managed only the slightest twitch of the lip to display his deep displeasure with this development. "I have noticed," he said, although his voice sounded somewhat strangled. "But I believe that Potter's infatuation with the Dark Lord will be resolved very shortly, if all goes according to plan." He leaned closer; there was a loud crash across the room as the fighting began to get physical. A young woman laughed throatily at the bar, batting her heavily made-up eyelashes as the man beside her spilled his drink.

Snape spoke very softly. "But I need your word, Lucius. You must swear that you will do everything in your power to assist me, everything that you are able to protect Potter."

Malfoy closed his eyes for a brief moment, and Snape held his breath. There was such a long pause that Snape began to think that the man had not heard him speak, but then Lucius opened his eyes again, revealing icy blue fire with all of the life returned anew, determination settling his mouth into a thin, steely line.

"Tell me what you need me to do."

* * *

><p>"You ought to consider beefing up your security, you know," Harry said casually.<p>

Voldemort's fork paused in its ascent to his lips, and he quirked a hairless eyebrow. "Beef it up?" he repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. "And how might you suggest I do that?"

Harry smirked, unable to contain his pride. He set his own fork on his plate - Voldemort hated when he spoke with his mouth full almost as much as Hermione did, although the Dark Lord hadn't tried to throw any books at him yet - and put his elbows on the small table Voldemort had summoned into the sitting room of his chambers, leaning his chin on his fists. Harry had suggested they dine in Voldemort's chambers tonight, hoping to put his next encounter with any Death Eaters as far away from him as possible. Voldemort had indulged him.

"Your gate, specifically," Harry said, trying for his most charming grin, the one that Rita Skeeter had squealed over the very few times he had given it to her for a photograph. "Shoddy piece of spellwork if I ever saw one. I got right through with an Alohamora."

There was a pause as Voldemort stared at him incredulously for a few long moments. Harry was nearly bursting with self-satisfaction, taking the Dark Lord's skepticism to mean that the other man truly hadn't thought of that most basic unlocking spell. But then a smirk curled Voldemort's lips, the way it did whenever Harry didn't understand something in a lesson, and Harry's heart sank. "Severus was right about you," Voldemort said with a long-suffering sigh and a shake of his head. "You're an arrogant little brat."

Harry blinked. "Pardon?"

"_Alohamora_?" Voldemort repeated, and he actually chuckled this time, much to Harry's chagrin. "You foolish child, I set my wards so that they would open for you."

An embarrassed flush rose to Harry's cheeks, but not before his stomach squirmed pleasantly. "You … what?" He smiled. "You knew that I would come back?"

Voldemort scowled. "Of course I knew you would come back. I know you better than the back of my own hand."

Whatever that meant. Perhaps Voldemort didn't know him as well as he thought. Harry took a hasty bite of his dinner as he tried to forget the true reason he had returned here and the surge of guilt that came with it. "I reckon you just couldn't stop thinking about me, hm?" Harry said at last, forcing a cheeky grin.

Voldemort glowered at him. "Chew and swallow before you open your mouth, you insolent child; I don't want you choking." Harry smiled widely with his mouth full; Voldemort did not appear to be amused, so Harry swallowed it quickly. The Dark Lord seemed to be trying very hard not to roll his eyes. "It is nearly impossible for me _not _to think of you, considering the fact that your incorrigible emotions are constantly flaring onto _my _side of the connection."

Harry refused to be daunted. "You love every minute of it."

"_Swallow_, for Merlin's sake; and I do not love anything, least of all your wild propensity to indulge in such base emotion."

Harry smirked. "I think you appreciated my _base emotions_ in the bedroom before."

Another long-suffering sigh, accompanied by a hand raising to rub at his temple. "Do you even know what that means?"

Harry straightened his back in a lofty impression of Lord Voldemort. "Oh, Harry," he said in his best imitation of the high, cold, hissing tones of the Dark Lord, "the revolting sentiment whirlpooling through the brownie batter that passes for your very small brain simultaneously makes me want to vomit and bugger your brains out! However will I deal with such a contradiction?"

Voldemort narrowed his scarlet eyes. "I'm sure I can find a way." He gave Harry a dark look that sent shivers tap-dancing down his spine. Harry shook himself. How could Voldemort manage to do that to him with just a damn look? The boy sat there stupidly for a few more moments as the Dark Lord chewed - and swallowed - another bite of his dinner, looking as though he hadn't just made Harry's stomach do a backflip with a simple heated glance.

"So, Harry," Voldemort said, shaking the boy from his stupor, "you've yet to share all of the details surrounding your miraculous escape."

_Shit_.

Harry swallowed forcibly, although there was nothing in his mouth now. Voldemort was regarding him with a strange expression, and it was suddenly clear that this question had been on the tip of the man's tongue for the entire afternoon. Panic threatened to send him running from the room, but Harry could hardly move; he knew that his behavior now would determine the nature of the rest of his stay with the Dark Lord.

_The truth_, Harry decided without hesitation. Or at least as close to it as he could manage. This wouldn't work any other way.

"That's because it wasn't so miraculous," Harry said after a moment, his eyes falling to his plate.

The air nearly crackled with tension. Harry couldn't bring himself to look up at the Dark Lord, lest he lose his nerve. "Do explain."

Of course, staring at your plate did not make the most confident picture, so Harry raised his gaze to meet the probing pools of red, burying thoughts of Horcruxes and his friends beneath a memory of Ginny laughing in his third year. Terror was bubbling in his gut. "They wanted me to spy for them," Harry said nervously. "Get a good look at the situation, assess how strong your followers have become."

Voldemort had become very still in his chair, his face unreadable. It was terrifying. Harry held his breath and tried not to let his panic show on his face. His fork was clenched very tightly in fist.

"I knew as much."

The panic exploded into little frissons of terror that pulsed hot and urgent through his veins. Voldemort was staring intently into Harry's eyes, and the boy was reminded of his earlier fear, suddenly certain once again that Voldemort was going to kill him, that he had only been toying with Harry, pouring salt in his wounds so that it would be even more painful when the Dark Lord cast him aside.

"But that is not the true reason you returned here."

Harry blinked dumbly as his brain registered this statement. "No," he heard himself agree almost immediately, and his voice sounded so much surer than he felt. "No, it's not."

Voldemort did not look entirely convinced himself, but then again Harry was having a lot of trouble figuring out _what _the Dark Lord was thinking. His own mind was a reeling maelstrom of emotion, confusion and panic and relief and terror all mixed up together, and hell if Voldemort couldn't read it plain as day on his face.

"It was the only way for them to let me go," Harry explained desperately when Voldemort did not continue. He found that the words came very naturally to him, especially since they were so close to the truth. Perhaps they even _were _the truth. "They suggested it to me and I didn't want to pass up the opportunity. I didn't have a wand; there was no way that I could overtake them all by hand, and I was under constant surveillance - there would have been no way for me to escape."

Voldemort leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowed, his face thoughtful. _It's the truth_, Harry thought as the man's gaze probed his expression. _It's the absolute truth._

"Your first test then, Harry," Voldemort said after a long moment. Foreboding curled up tight in Harry's stomach. "As a follower of the Dark Lord." Merlin, he'd never expected to hear those words directed to him. Harry swallowed, remembering what Mr. Weasley had told him. _You may be expected to do some terrible things_.

"I'll do anything," Harry blurted out, sitting up as straight as he could in the chair, "anything I can to prove it to you."

Something flashed in Voldemort's eyes. Harry bit down hard on the inside of his lip to keep himself from reacting inappropriately when Voldemort said that he required Harry to skin a Muggle by hand, or take the Dark Mark on his forearm, or declare his love for Voldemort on the national wizarding radio.

But Voldemort didn't command him to do any of those things. He merely sat up and continued to study Harry's face before asking a simple question.

"Then tell me: where did the Order take you after you left the Weasley residence?"

Harry's stomach dropped to the floor. He certainly had not been expecting that. His mind immediately flew to Tonks, who was using her mother's home as a peaceful hideout for the remainder of her pregnancy. The Order's brief occupation of the Tonks residence had been nothing but an emergency; how could he reveal her location to the Dark Lord in return for her hospitality?

"Ah, yes, the Metamorphmagus," Voldemort said suddenly, and Harry almost bit his lip off in his surprise that Voldemort had been lurking in his mind. "She married the werewolf, did she not? Quite the non-traditional couple."

Harry was holding the fork so tightly that it had begun to leave an impression in his palm. "Don't you dare talk about Lupin."

Another flash of something cruel passed across Voldemort's face. "I see that I've hit a sore spot. I didn't know you were so fond of animals, Harry; I could always buy you a new pet if you're really that devastated."

Bitterness swelled up in the back of Harry's throat. "He was going to be a father," Harry said, somehow managing to keep his voice down through clenched teeth. Voldemort didn't seem to hear him.

"But none of this helps, Harry; it seems that an inconvenient Fidelius has been placed on her home. You'll have to share the location with me."

Harry was really beginning to panic now. He needed to convince Voldemort that he would not betray him again - either because he truly wouldn't be able to bring himself to, or because it was necessary to continue moving forward with the Order's haphazard plan, Harry himself wasn't even sure which - but how could he hand Tonks and her mother over to the Dark Lord?

Voldemort was quietly watching the battle rage across Harry's face. He steepled his fingers in front of him, leaning back in his chair. "You're going to get poor marks, Harry."

A warning. Something twisted in Harry's chest. "You can't hurt her," Harry said hoarsely, his eyes closing against the guilt that threatened to overwhelm him from all sides. All traces of the cheeky, grinning, teasing boy had vanished.

Voldemort made an impatient noise across the table. "As long as she doesn't get in my way."

Somehow, this wasn't reassuring. Harry blinked open his eyes angrily. "So, what, does this all mean that your promise is off now?"

Voldemort curled his lip. "There are no promises in war, Harry," he said viciously. "You've chosen your side. You will have to accept that your enemies - _our _enemies - will suffer for following an old, dead fool into his grave."

Harry felt angry tears forming in his eyes. This wasn't fair. How could they expect him to do this? How could _Voldemort _expect him to do this? Why couldn't something in his life be simple for once? But one thing was clear - if he kept on like this, he was going to get himself killed, and all of this, no matter which goal he was pursuing, would be for naught.

Harry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and called forth the image of Tonks' home to his mind's eye.

Immediately, he felt the smooth skin of Voldemort's fingertips trailing along his jaw, sifting through his hair, touching his ear, rewarding him. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, refusing to show the Dark Lord his guilt, which manifested itself in the tears filling up his eyes.

"Well done, Harry," Voldemort said softly from right beside him. Harry could not remember when Voldemort had come stand next to him. "Well done. I can make a leader of you yet."

Harry didn't open his eyes or lean toward the gentle touch of his enemy. He felt ashamed, somehow, like he had lost a part of himself by betraying his friends. Almost as ashamed as he had felt upon agreeing to betray Voldemort. Almost as hurt as he had felt when Voldemort had betrayed him.

"We will leave first thing in the morning," Voldemort said softly, his fingers still carding through Harry's impossible hair. Harry opened his eyes in confusion.

"We?" he repeated, raising his gaze to find Voldemort's own. He nearly shrank back when he did; Voldemort was standing beside him, staring at him with a look of such intensity that it raised the fine hairs on the back of Harry's neck.

"We." Voldemort's fingers found the hairs standing up on the back of Harry's neck, and the boy couldn't resist a shudder. "It will be your first mission as the Dark Lord's apprentice."

Hope and dread lit up simultaneously in Harry's chest. Hope, because if Harry were there, perhaps he could manipulate the situation in some way, convince Voldemort to be merciful. Dread, because Voldemort might force him to do something utterly unspeakable to his friends.

"The Dark Lord's apprentice." Harry smiled weakly. "What does that entail?"

Voldemort wrapped his hand around the back of Harry's shirt and gently pulled him to his feet. He tipped Harry's chin back so that the boy was looking straight up at him; Harry was reminded absentmindedly of how short he was.

"I will train you and tutor you every day. I will teach you everything that I know. You will follow me everywhere. You will do everything that I tell you to, without hesitation." Voldemort must have noticed Harry's wince, because he added, "But I encourage you to ask honest questions when you do not understand what we are doing. There is a reason for everything that I do. Use this ability wisely, Harry; this is not a luxury I grant to most of my followers."

Harry smiled shakily again. "But I'm not most of your followers."

Amusement passed briefly over Voldemort's pale face. "Astute observation, my clever little Horcrux," he said softly, and he dragged his fingers softly across Harry's cheek. There was something incredibly intimate about the gesture. Harry shivered.

"In return," Voldemort continued, "you will not do anything_ foolish_. You will not disobey me. You will shed your previous convictions about the Muggle world, the Order of the Phoenix, and those who have manipulated you for your entire life under the guise of friendship and family." Angry fire lit briefly in the Dark Lord's eyes, only to be replaced with something darker. "You will share my bed."

Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. It occurred to him that he was very good at swallowing when there wasn't food in his mouth and a Dark Lord to irritate. He nodded jerkily, trying to concentrate on the fingers against his jaw, anchoring him to something in this gigantic, guilt-laden mess that had become his life.

_You may be expected to do some terrible things. _Harry repeated Mr. Weasley's words in his head to try to dispel his guilt. It didn't work.

"I want you to say it aloud, Harry," Voldemort said softly. Harry found that he couldn't look away from the Dark Lord's gaze. He hoped that the other man wasn't trying to use Legilimency, because Harry was an open book, pried bare from the exhausting emotions that had defined his day. "To the world, we will be equals. We will be partners. But within the confines of our minds, you are mine, Harry."

_You are mine_. Something about these words always struck him with defiance, and this time was no different. Harry straightened up a little. "That may be," Harry said evenly, "but I'm the one who has your soul. You are just as much mine as I am yours, Tom. We will be equals everywhere."

Harry kissed Voldemort's surprise from his lips before he could respond, standing on his tip-toes to reach the older man, his arms winding about Voldemort's neck. Their dinner was left forgotten as Voldemort allowed Harry to drag him toward the bedroom doorway without protest.

Harry spared one last glance for the sitting room as they went, trying and failing to find a hint of a golden chest. He told himself that he wanted to find the Horcruxes and end this game before it could get too bloody, but part of him knew that his only intention was to open that locket and finish his conversation with Tom. And perhaps have a little more than conversation. If anyone would know what to do about the impossible quandary ruling his life, it would be Tom.

Voldemort, the man who could not love, made love to Harry that evening with tenderness unprecedented. Such an ironic paradox, that Lord Voldemort could be so gentle and delicate with Harry Potter. Their love made a different kind of magic, all the more potent for its inability to be expressed, transforming the room, their bodies, their lives into something perfect and beautiful. This magic stripped away their titles and their names, the horrors of their past and future. The adoring kisses that Voldemort scattered across Harry's body erased the memory of tears from his cheeks, the scars from the war, the Death Eaters, the murder and betrayal. There is no room for secrets in lovers, but Voldemort did not love, so the magic could only sweep their secrets aside for a moment until they were only two men, laid bare and unblemished for each other.

For a few precious moments, they were only two lost souls, irresistibly and irreversibly intertwined, completing and destroying each other in the same shuddering breath. For a moment, Harry could smile with abandon, and there was beautiful silver in Voldemort's gaze, and everything was alright.

* * *

><p>Harry was given a new robe to wear, all black and regal and warm. He had never worn any robes while staying at the cottage, but Voldemort explained as he dressed Harry in the morning light that a leader must maintain his appearances before his followers.<p>

Harry couldn't suppress the dark, secret thrill that ran through him when Voldemort called him a leader.

The Death Eaters were waiting in the hall as they had been those many weeks ago. A jolt of horror ran through him again as he was reminded of what they were about to do. It was the worst sort of betrayal, but what other choice did Harry have? _You may be expected to do some terrible things_. They had known what he was getting himself into; would they blame him for it when all was said and done?

Harry felt awkward and nervous with so many eyes on him as he emerged at the top of the stair in Voldemort's shadow. Voldemort killed the first person who jeered in Harry's direction. Even though Voldemort gave no other warning, there were no other comments from the Death Eaters regarding Harry's presence. The message was very clear.

Harry's eyes anxiously wandered the crowd in the hall as Voldemort explained that they would need to fly to their destination, since there had been wards and protective spells set on this home for miles around. He tried to distract himself from his guilt and fear by memorizing the faces of the Death Eater below him. His fingers were wrapped firmly around his wand, his own wand, returned to him the night before with a soft, secret smile and a kiss on his wrist. _You are precious to me, Harry_, Voldemort had said in answer to Harry's unspoken question._I will not risk leaving you defenseless again._

The memory was cut abruptly short when Harry's gaze was suddenly met with loathing so intense it threatened to knock him over. His fingers instinctively squeezed around his wand, and he nearly took a step back, his eyes widening behind his glasses. Just as quickly, the moment was over, their eye contact broken as someone stepped between them in the crowd. When Harry caught sight of her again, her gaze was returned to the Dark Lord, all of its usual vacant adoration back in place.

But Harry couldn't shake the memory as Voldemort led Harry down the stairs with a hand on his back. For although the loathing in Bellatrix Lestrange's face had been terrifying on its own, it was the knowing, horrible, maniacal smile that had twisted her lips that made Harry shudder like he had just been staring into the grinning face of the Grim itself.


	28. V:2

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

A/N: Thank you so much for your patience, guys. I know it's been a really long wait, but I've been incredibly busy and I was having a really hard time writing this. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and that it makes up for the wait! Thank you for all your wonderful reviews and for being so supportive!

Also, a HUGE thank-you to the beautiful Neven for making me such lovely gorgeous fanart for Freefall! Check out this amaaaaazing picture she made! (without the spaces, clearly):

http : / / neven-ebrez . deviantart . com / # / d4np0aw

Guh. Speechless. Okay, enjoy the update! I will really try to get the next chapter up sooner.

* * *

><p>2.<p>

The rear of Malfoy Manor was unfamiliar to Harry - he had only been previously acquainted with the long, gravelly path leading to the manor's front – but it was just as grandiose and unnecessary as Harry would have expected it to be. Gardens, fountains, a large and elaborate patio with the letter "M" engraved in the center - and let's not forget the flock of peacocks, which apparently spent the majority of its time in the rear of the mansion - all fought for Harry's begrudging attention.

But it was the big, calligraphic "M" in the center of the patio that really struck a chord with Harry the most. A memory stirred in Harry's mind, small snippets of another morning from another lifetime - his fourth year, the chilly dungeon walls of Hogwarts, acrid fumes rising from a dozen cauldrons.

'"_M" is, without a doubt, the best letter in the alphabet,' _Malfoy had been drawling to his typical crowd of Slytherin's dumbest and nastiest. _'So many great words start with "m" – Malfoy, obviously, but also majestic, magnificent and mighty.'_

'_Yeah, which is why Malfoy's a magnificent and mighty moron_,' Harry had said under his breath, and Ron, who'd been shaving off the surface of a lionfish spine with great care, had sliced right through the middle of it in the fit of sniggering that followed. Snape, who had not been impressed with their explanation, had assigned them both 14-inch essays on the differences between slicing and shaving in his ensuring wrath, along with a list of positive adjectives that begin with the letter 'p.'

As it turned out, there were not very many.

But after spending so much time at the manor, Harry could not deny the magnificence of the ancestral home of the Malfoy clan. Although Harry was by no means poor, at least not according to his vault in Gringotts, he had never been exposed to the luxuries of the rich, modern, pureblood lifestyle. As much as he loathed the Malfoys, he couldn't help but admit that their home was certainly impressive.

And ridiculous, Harry thought to himself as a peacock went squawking by him. Absolutely ridiculous.

For a fleeting moment, Harry was thrilled by this addition to his arsenal of Things That Make Malfoy Angry. All the more ammunition to rub into Malfoy's pointy little face when he returned to school in the fall.

But then Harry remembered that he wouldn't ever be returning to Hogwarts again, and Malfoy was dead.

"Voldemort." Harry's voice was soft as they began to walk away from the manor, past a fountain and another peacock. The Death Eaters followed behind them.

Voldemort did not turn around.

"Tom," Harry tried again. A visible wince cringed Voldemort's shoulders. "I need to talk to you."

Voldemort turned his head ever-so-slightly. He made a striking picture; his head was cocked to the side, his scarlet eye bright above his pale cheek. The cool breeze caught his cloak, found its way under Harry's robes as well and made him shiver.

"Later."

Harry bit his lip, remembering the look on Bellatrix's face. He opened his mouth to protest, but then they walked past another fountain and any objections – any thoughts whatsoever – completely fled his mind.

There were broomsticks. Dozens of them. They were lined up in rows past the biggest fountain, and it seemed to be their destination, judging from Voldemort's authoritative stride, just a step ahead of Harry's own.

Harry tried not to get excited, he really did - he had just been contemplating the death of a childhood peer, after all, and he was currently leading an army of lunatics directly to a pregnant woman's doorstep - but he couldn't help himself. He hadn't seen a broomstick since their flight from Privet Drive.

_(and had that really only been last summer? How is it that life can change so quickly, from one season to the next, shedding allegiances and convictions as easily as a tree sheds its leaves in the autumn sun?)_

Voldemort halted directly before the rows of brooms. The mass of Death Eaters, hanging onto their leader's every movement, halted immediately when he did. Harry, however, didn't seem to pick up on this. He was at the nearest broomstick in an instant, unable to stop his fingers from trailing along the fine, polished wood. A steady, magical thrumming pulsed up into his fingers at the touch, and he smiled a soft, delighted smile.

He did not feel the many eyes on his back, staring at him with envy, disgust, some with open loathing.

"There are multiple wards and enchantments surrounding our goal today," Voldemort announced to the crowd, paying no heed to Harry, who was now regarding the gold nameplate on the end of the broomstick with a sort of stunned reverence. "We've attempted to penetrate the anti-Apparation wards in particular to no avail."

Harry was only half-listening. _Thunderbolt_, said the tiny little words, engraved perfectly in tiny flowing script. _Thunderbolt _– such a simple name, just a handful of letters, but they held so much power, all the latest engineering and magical research of the most recent generation of the Firebolt series. They held the kiss of the afternoon sun, the promise of the fastest flight on the Quidditch pitch, the brilliant adrenaline rush that surges through Harry's veins just before he pulls himself out of a particularly steep dive.

And there - three more words, scrawled right below the first in the same manner: _H. J. Potter_.

"Since Apparation is not a possibility, and it seems as though they've tucked this bungalow so far away from the rest of modern civilization that Flooing would only prove detrimental to our journey," and Voldemort spoke these words with disdain and ridicule, as though he had not just been hiding Harry away in a similar location for over a month, "we will be forced to fly."

There was a rustle in the crowd, the barest murmur of mouths forming mutinous words, soft enough for only their neighbors to hear – but it didn't matter. Harry felt the poison on their tongues, the loathing in their stares, even if he couldn't make out the words that they whispered.

The brief pleasure that Harry had taken in his new broomstick withered in half of a heartbeat. These same eyes had looked on Harry during his flight to the Burrow last July, trained to hate and hurt and kill him. He could feel their jealousy, looking upon him now at the right hand of their leader. Harry was no Legilimens, but he could feel their hateful thoughts for him as clearly as he might Voldemort's own.

How could Voldemort not see?

_Tom, _Harry thought, turning his eyes to the Dark Lord. _Tom, I need to talk to you._

Voldemort still did not turn around, didn't even give any outward indication that he had heard Harry's plea.

"These brooms were kindly provided to us by Yaxley's friends at the Ministry," Voldemort announced to the dark army amassed before him. Yaxley was standing at the front of the crowd with a dark, smug smile on his face, seemingly oblivious to the anger roiling beneath the surface of the others around him.

Clearly, Yaxley's desire to please the Dark Lord was stronger than any hatred he had harbored for Harry in the past. Harry wasn't sure if this relieved or terrified him.

"I'm told that they are the fastest in the industry," Voldemort continued, "and I expect you all to take full advantage of this asset to expedite our mission this morning."

Our mission. Our mission to betray, to kill, to spread destruction and death.

Harry's stomach lurched. _You may be expected to do some terrible things_. But it didn't make him feel any better, standing here at Voldemort's right hand, ready to betray those he had come to consider family. Harry found himself longing for the morning sunlight soaking the bedclothes in their cottage bedroom, for the long, lazy days where his only concern had been what Harry and Hermione would make up for dinner, wondering when Voldemort would return that evening. When the threat of Bellatrix Lestrange and her evil eyes wasn't even a thought in his head.

_Tom_. Harry focused his thoughts as directly at Voldemort as he could. _I really need to talk to you, right now._

And then, finally, a response: _Later_.

"We leave at once," Voldemort said, a short, clipped command. His breath fogged in the January air. He did not look at Harry. "Summon a broomstick."

Harry's hand immediately shot out to grab the broom next to him, the one with his name specially inscribed just for him, to make sure that it didn't get away from him in the flurry of rushing brooms that followed this instruction.

It purred beneath his fingers, a soothing sensation that managed to subdue his racing heart with its sweet familiarity – but only slightly. It did not attempt to tug away from him, even as the neat lines of broomsticks broke and scattered as they rushed to their new owners.

A broom beneath his fingers, a wand in his pocket - Harry closed his eyes, and for a moment, he could pretend that he was home at Hogwarts again.

"Harry." A gentle touch to his shoulder brought him abruptly back to Malfoy Manor. The boy looked up at Voldemort, who was studying him with a look of concern. "Severus tells me that you are a passable flyer."

Harry forced his eyes to resist the urge to seek out the Slytherin Head of House and glare. _Passable?_ "I suppose you could say that."

Voldemort did not detect the note of indignation in Harry's voice. "Then stay close to me, my Harry." His voice was low, and his eyes wandered to narrow suspiciously at the Death Eaters that were beginning to mount their brooms. "I don't like how they look at you when they think that my back is turned. They think that I don't see their disapproval; they think that I'm not watching. But remember this, Harry: Lord Voldemort is always watching."

Harry swallowed. Somehow, he had a feeling that Voldemort had not seen the sinister expression that had darkened his darling Bellatrix's face in the hallway before, promising a swift and silent murder for a certain green-eyed intruder. It would not have been like Voldemort to let such a threat pass ignored. Or at least, Harry thought anxiously, he hoped not.

"About that," Harry said, unable to hold it in any longer. He reached up to touch Voldemort's sleeve. "It's really important. If I could _please_ just have a moment – "

"Later, Harry," Voldemort said, brushing off his hand; and, to Harry's infinite frustration, he turned away.

* * *

><p>Being the moving target of a Dark Lord had never given Harry much room for comfortable pastimes in his life. Harry didn't catch on to his subjects as quickly as Hermione did, and he wasn't very well-versed in wizarding culture to fall back on magical hobbies like Ron and his brothers. Hermione had her books, Ron had his chessboard - but Harry, well, Harry had never had anything but his broom.<p>

Quidditch was the one area in his life in which Harry was truly talented. Luck always seemed to find him in plentiful quantities no matter what he was doing, but Harry had never needed any luck to win a Quidditch game. For someone so scrawny and nearsighted, Harry had always been excellent at spotting a Snitch and making sure that he was the player to reach it first.

There was only one thing that Harry might have enjoyed more than Quidditch, and that was the act of flying itself. Snape had always insisted that it was the attention Quidditch offered that drew Harry to the sport,

(_'The spotlight on your scar clearly isn't big enough to fit your whole bloated head, Mr. Potter. It's a wonder that you can even fit it on a broomstick in the first place.')_

but he was wrong (big surprise there). It was the hours that Harry had spent alone, lapping the Quidditch pitch, that he cherished the most.

His broom was one of the only places at Hogwarts that Harry could ever truly find solitude. Living in a corner of the dormitory with four other boys hadn't afforded him much privacy, but when Harry climbed onto his Firebolt, he had the entire sky to himself. It had become a source of comfort over the years, a sanctuary from the frenzy and hysteria that had characterized his otherwise brilliant years at school. A place to be alone, to think, to escape.

As Harry swung a leg over his new broom this particular morning, however, he found it very difficult to dredge up the mind-numbing comfort flying had once offered him. Any small, unexpected surges of delight

(_the realization that his Quidditch calluses still clung to the edges of his fingers, that his grip down the length of the broom was still familiar, that the wood of this beautiful broomstick simply sang beneath his fingertips_)

were quickly overwhelmed by guilt that he could be finding any pleasure in anything at all right now.

"A broom, my lord?" Yaxley stepped up to Voldemort, a proffered broomstick in his hand and his ugly smile still firmly in place.

Voldemort looked at him with such disdain that Harry might have thought Yaxley had just offered him a Muggle tricycle. "Only lesser wizards require such contraptions to fly," said Voldemort, and he narrowed his eyes. "Do you take me for a lesser wizard, Yaxley?"

The man's reaction was immediate. He began spluttering, dropping the broom to the ground as though it had scalded his hand. "No, no, of course, my lord!"

_My lord. _Harry was vividly reminded of Yaxley's face as he had chased Harry and his friends down the Ministry's halls and was suddenly taken with the hope that he would get to see Voldemort hex the man.

He was disappointed. "Lead onward, then," was all that the Dark Lord said. "We shall remain just behind you."

That was strange. Harry had expected Voldemort to remain at the forefront of the operation; he could never recall him remaining 'just behind' anyone else in the past. But then again, Voldemort had never had a Harry to protect. Perhaps he believed they would be safer amongst the other Death Eaters.

If Voldemort had only given him the time of day, Harry might have been able to convince him otherwise.

"By your leave, my lord," said Yaxley with a trembling voice.

Voldemort glanced at Harry for what could have only been the third time that morning. Harry gave a weak smile and attempted to look brave and prepared and confident and nothing like how he truly felt inside. He must have done an alright job, because Voldemort next directed his scarlet gaze to the overcast sky. His head inclined in an almost imperceptible nod.

"Proceed," said the Dark Lord, and the sky went black.

Harry's first instinct was to take off along with all the others. It was so much like the first moments of a Quidditch game that Harry caught himself straining his ears for Madame Hooch's whistle, waiting for its piercing screech to give him leave to kick off and join the commotion in the sky. Instead, there was only Voldemort, standing beside him and surveying the heavens with an expression of distaste, deadly dark shapes on broomsticks whizzing behind him.

"I never liked to fly." Voldemort's eyes didn't leave the sky, but he spoke as amiably as though he and Harry were lying in bed together. "When wizards have the power to close their eyes to one place and open them to another, I've always thought that brooms were a very useless mode of transportation."

"They're fun," Harry said, feeling a bit offended. He gripped the handle of his broom; someone shot by him too close, making his robes flap a little, followed quickly by someone else zooming just over his head.

Harry wished that he were in the air as well. He was much more confident on a broom than he was standing flat on the ground.

Voldemort's lips quirked. Harry noticed that no one dared to fly too close to the Dark Lord. "I believe we may have different interpretations of the word, 'fun,' Harry."

Death Eaters were still racing past them on all sides; Harry could see the narrow, black cloud that they made in the sky now extended almost out of his sight. He thought that it must look a little like a tornado, touching down where they stood at Malfoy Manor.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Harry said lightly. "I can think of a few things that we enjoy doing together."

Another twitch of Voldemort's lips; Harry was getting good at this. "And I am hoping to extend that list," said the Dark Lord, dousing Harry's stomach in ice again, a reminder of their purpose today. "Come, Harry; it is time."

Harry swallowed. It was time indeed.

Fingers gripping the handle of his broomstick, Harry bent his knees, felt the dirt give a little underneath the balls of his feet, and pushed off the ground. Magic surged up through the broom to his fingers to his toes, letting him know what the broom was capable of, how far he could push himself, how fast it would take him; but Harry only remained hovering a few feet above the grass as the last of the Death Eaters soared around him and over him.

Harry glanced at Voldemort, the toes of his trainers scraping against the grass, his legs dangling from the broom.

Voldemort was as elegant in the air as he was on the ground. With effortless grace, he lifted off the grass, matching Harry's height and then gliding higher, robes billowing behind him in the breeze like some sort of terrifying, flying creature of Death. It was an arresting sight. Harry had never known another who could fly without a broom; but this was Tom Marvolo Riddle, always pushing the limits of life and flesh and magic, never ceasing to make Harry's eyes go wide and his jaw go slack with wonder and shock and - dare he say it? - admiration.

Harry hesitated, half-captivated by the sight, half-uncertain of whether he was supposed to fly ahead or remain 'just behind.' Sensing his hesitation, Voldemort paused and glanced behind him, caught Harry's eye curiously.

And then, a flashback,

(_Hagrid's heavy body sagging on the motorbike in front of him, darkness unaffected by any stars or streetlamps, and those redredred eyes coming at him, the last thing that Harry would ever see, a scarlet gaze in the dark and a flash of green light, awful red eyes that would haunt his nightmares for as long as he lived_)

brought on by the sight of Voldemort hovering there in the sky, sent a great shiver down Harry's spine. The boy blinked fiercely, brought himself back to January of 1998 where no red-eyed demons chased Harry, in his dreams or otherwise.

"Come, Harry," Voldemort said again. A soft smile curved his lips, the one that was all for Harry, and the monster with the red eyes and the cruel heart dissolved in the face of this new person who bantered and laughed, wept and loved, all of it just for Harry, just for him.

Harry glided up beside Voldemort and returned the smile as best as he could.

"I will be right beside you," said the Dark Lord, and he brushed an affectionate, fleeting touch across Harry's scar. "Don't fret."

In that moment, Harry realized that he wanted to be selfish; he wanted to cling to all of this that was his now, all of it that was his own, and keep it close until his very last breath. He could almost see it in the clouds behind them, in the tornado of black broomsticks that had now lifted off of the ground and was being sucked up into the sky.

It would be easy, like awakening from a muddy dream. First he would forget their voices, and then their faces. And then their names would slowly leave him, like petals plucked from a flower - Ron, Hermione, Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore - they would all fall away into the breeze of a January day, much like this one, until just the head of the stem remained.

Until there was only Tom.

But that wasn't possible, the kind, gentle voice of Professor Sprout reminded him. A flower without petals? How would it ever get any sunlight? It would simply wither up and -

"Are you a Quidditch player or aren't you?" said Voldemort, the impatience in his voice tugging Harry once again to the present.

Harry smiled at the mention of Quidditch, a real, genuine grin this time. He drew up his knees and leaned forward on his broom a bit, the standard position for a flyer. "I reckon you'll find me _passable_."

Voldemort raised his brow. "Perhaps you should show me."

And so Harry did.

* * *

><p>Even on the fastest broomsticks that the Ministry had to offer, the ride was long and cold. This was made even worse by how sluggish the Death Eaters were on brooms. Harry had easily caught up to the procession, despite the few minutes head-start that the group had had on them. But even though Voldemort had ordered them all to fly as quickly as they could, it was clear that the majority of his followers were as unfamiliar with broomsticks as they were with driving Muggle station wagons.<p>

Needless it say, it was very slow-going.

Harry laced his numb fingers together around the front of his broom, trying and failing to seek warmth. The chilly morning had become a chillier afternoon, and their altitude just above the clouds as they flew due north did nothing to help the chill in his fingers. Harry found himself grateful that Moody wasn't there to make them double back and change directions, but then he remembered that Voldemort had killed Moody on a broomstick only last July and was left with nothing but an empty, sad ache in his chest.

Voldemort stayed right at Harry's side except for brief periods when he would glide ahead to discuss something with Yaxley or Snape. Yaxley always seemed pleased with the Dark Lord's attention, but Snape was acting rather strangely, always throwing backward glances over his shoulder in Harry's direction and never keeping Voldemort for very long.

Harry kept hoping every time that the Dark Lord flew to Snape's side that Snape might go tumbling off of his broomstick, the greasy, traitorous git. But then Voldemort would return to Harry, and Snape would still be perched rather precariously on his broom, looking uncomfortable and angry and, unfortunately, still in the Dark Lord's good graces.

Around midday, however, Harry could see that the Death Eaters in his immediate vicinity were beginning to get restless. The last time that Voldemort had flown ahead, a young woman with cropped hair had hissed something to the man beside her, complaining of the ache in her thighs. Another man, an angry, brutish fellow that Harry didn't recognize, threw Harry dirty, contemptuous looks every time that Voldemort left them alone. Harry, of course, glared right back.

But as soon as Voldemort returned once more to Harry's side, any glaring from either direction ceased immediately.

Harry balanced himself on his broom so that he could briefly rub his hands together. Even underneath his robes, the boy could feel goose pimples rippling across his skin, a product of the chill and the wind. Harry glanced rather wistfully down at the clouds. Surely, they must be nearly there -

A sudden bout of shouting further up the line almost made Harry fall off his broom in surprise. Grasping his broomstick again, Harry frowned and leaned forward, trying to get a better look.

Two Death Eaters had separated from the procession of flyers. Each had a wand pointed in the face of the other, and they were gesturing wildly and yelling.

Voldemort sighed beside him, but Harry did not miss the anger that flashed across his face. "Eternally surrounded by fools." He drew his wand and turned to Harry. "I will return momentarily."

With a crack, Voldemort vanished.

Harry sighed as well, preparing himself for another glaring contest with Angry Man-Brute. When he looked up, however, the man was not looking at Harry; rather, he was staring with wide eyes ahead of him, where the two men were still arguing.

And then a lot of things happened at once.

Voldemort's unmistakable tenor, amplified to a loud echo, rang out over the rush of the wind in Harry's ears, over the displeased murmurs of the men and women around him - and certainly over the shouts of the two arguing Death Eaters, who immediately fell silent. At the same time, the procession of Death Eaters ground to a halt, uncertain whether to continue onward when their leader had stopped to make such a violent demonstration. Which was a decidedly good thing, because at that moment, Harry's broom, his brand-new, beautiful broom, decided that it wasn't going to take him any further.

With a huge jerk, Harry's broomstick swung violently to the left, nearly barreling him into Angry Man-Brute, who was still flying beside him. Man-Brute scowled predictably, getting out of Harry's way just in time. Just as Harry got his grip back on the broom's handle again, however, it drove him - _hard _- to the right, and he actually did knock into someone then, the grumpy woman with the short-cropped hair, and she clearly did not have as firm a grip on her broom as Harry - perhaps because of her aching thighs, Harry thought absently - because she went tumbling over the side of her broom in an instant, screaming and flailing and disappearing in the space of a blink beneath the clouds.

And there was nothing Harry could do about it. He could only watch her go, falling to her death, and all because his broom was absolutely refusing to listen to him. It began throwing him from side to side, shaking uncontrollably under his fingers, and Harry's head snapped back and forth, back and forth as he did nothing but try to stay seated on the damn broom, to try to get it under control -

"Has he gone mad?" yelled Angry Brute over Voldemort's voice, which was shaking the clouds like a thunderstorm. Harry couldn't make out his words over the pounding in his ears, the sound of his heart beating hard in his throat. The broom was throwing somersaults at him now, and Harry found himself alternately upside-down and right-side-up in quick succession, four, five, six times in a row, his grip like a vice on the broom's handle.

"He's having a seizure," someone else observed. "Good for him, self-righteous little prat."

_I'm going to die_, Harry thought, rather calmly, all things considered. Surrounded by enemies, abandoned by an infuriated, stubborn lover, sitting on a goddamn cursed broomstick. _I'm going to die_.

There was a flash of light, and then another - they were trading spells now. Harry couldn't even find the energy or the time to reach out to Voldemort, to call for help; he could feel the other man's mind, a curtain of angry fire, and knew that it would be hell to get through to Voldemort in this state even if he hadn't been clinging for his life to a cursed broomstick.

Harry was doing somersaults front-to-back now, like some sort of sick magical rodeo. His fingers were so numb, cold sweat breaking his grip, making the handle slippery; he wasn't going to be able to hold on much longer, and then -

And then the broom took a sudden dive, straight down. Harry got a faceful of wet, cold cloud, began choking on it in an ill-timed inhale. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the handle as it dove down, down, downward - and wasn't this just like everything else in his life? Just when it had started to become pleasant, when he had started to remember how beautiful and simple flying could really be, he was thrown mercilessly into freefall, falling, falling, completely out of control.

Treetops came into view beneath the clouds, rushing at him with all the speed of the Hogwarts Express. At least he had been right about something: just beyond this forest was the Tonks residence. He would never get to see it himself, but perhaps, Harry thought as his broom began to spiral wildly in its descent, that was for the best.

The trees came closer, closer. Only twenty yards away, now only fifteen. Harry could make out a brown owl sitting atop one, taking in his nose-dive with wide, yellow eyes. Branches, flying toward him - Harry gripped his broom as tightly as he could, squeezed his eyes shut - just another moment -

Perhaps death would be nice, was Harry's last coherent thought; and then he was crashing through pine needles, the broom slipping from his fingers, branches smacking him in the nose, the chest, the arms - and then Harry saw it, the biggest branch of all, and he was going to crash into it headfirst, - it would all be over, death in the form of an angry, fat tree - there would be a lot of pain, but then there would be no more, never again -

But no, there wasn't pain. There was agony instead, brilliant and bright in his temple, a sickening _crunch_ as his arm twisted behind him, still falling, always falling.

He would never stop falling.

Harry's vision narrowed to a small pinhole of color, and then the world went very, very dark.

* * *

><p>"You fucking Squib, this is all your fault."<p>

The crunch of feet against snow. Snow, which was pressed against his cheek and making his face ice cold numb. But Harry wouldn't open his eyes, not yet. He had been having such a nice dream - he'd been flying, he'd had a brand new broomstick. Couldn't he just go back to sleep?

"How is this my fault? You are perfectly capable of flying a broom, last time I checked."

Harry tried to lift his head, but, gods, it was so _heavy_. To hell with it; he laid it back down on the ground, wet and icy against his face, his eyes still screwed shut.

"Yes, but we always get stuck together, which means that we'll always be far away from anything interesting."

There was sunlight, too bright on his eyelids and somehow just as cold as the snow on his cheek. Why was it so _bright_? Harry tried to raise his hand to cover his face, but his right arm was folded underneath his body, so_ heavy_. Squeezing his eyes against the brightness, Harry attempted to raise his left one instead.

"Well we've got something interesting to do today, don't we? I'd say revenge is pretty damn interesting."

"Shut it, you prat. The crash came from over here."

His endeavors were only met with a jolt of mind-shocking, paralyzing pain, all the way from his wrist to his shoulder. Harry's teeth immediately sunk into his tongue, so hard that they drew blood. But _hell_, did that hurt.

"Just like her, to have us waiting so far away. I specifically asked her to keep touchdown limited to a very concentrated area - "

"Look, I still don't know what a bloody _touchdown _is - we're not all disgraces to the family, alright, so stop using such Mugglish terms, you fucking Squib."

Voices, somewhere to his right. And they didn't sound very friendly. Still digging his teeth into his tongue, Harry opened his eyes, an awkward movement considering that there was something decidedly sticky attempting to keep them stuck shut.

He blinked a few times against the sunlight, which was almost painful to look at. The forest floor was blurry; Harry could see the shape of his spectacles lying less than a few feet away, clearly snapped right in the middle. It was a familiar sight; they had always looked like that after Dudley had been through with them.

He attempted to lean his head up again, slower this time - and had to bite his tongue once more, this time to keep from crying out in surprise.

The snow beneath his head was soaked in blood.

"If you call me that one more time, Lambert, I swear -"

"Shut it!" A hiss, and then a pause. "I heard something! I swear, if he gets away unscathed, I'm going to be beating on you instead, you fucking Squib."

_Shit oh shit oh shit_. Definitely not friendly. Where the hell was he and what had he gotten himself into this time? And where was Voldemort?

Heart racing, head pounding, arm aching, Harry lay as still as he could and strained his ears for any source of movement.

Nothing. Silence.

_Shit_.

Harry slowly turned over, freeing his right arm from its prison beneath him. Ignoring the terrible, throbbing pain in his left elbow, Harry placed his right palm in the snow behind him, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position. When he thought that he was steady enough, he reached out and grabbed his glasses, pushed them to sit crookedly on his nose. Next - and he kept his gaze determinedly away from the bloody snow beneath him, or else he thought he might be sick - he shoved his good hand into his right pocket, and then into his left, panic gradually climbing, climbing, climbing in his chest.

He remembered now. The rogue broom, the trip to Tonks, everything. And now he was in the middle of some stupid forest, with a broken arm, a broken broom, and, as far as he could tell, a wand that was no where to be -

"Looking for this?"

_Shit._

Harry looked up.

"Don't know why. It's just a stick, as far as I'm concerned." The man was tall, with light, shoulder-length hair and spectacles that looked a lot nicer than Harry's did right now. "All those special, _magical_ ingredients? Doesn't stop it from breaking right in two, just like any other damn piece of kindling."

And then, to Harry's total horror, the man snapped his wand clean in half.

"Perfect, famous Harry Potter," said another man, coming up from behind the first. He was also tall and light-haired, although he kept it cut closer to his head. Their features were both sharp, very similar, with strong chins and piercing blue eyes. They must be related, Harry thought. "Don't look so devastated. It's not as though you've ever had to use your wand to get out of a clinch before, eh? You've only needed to wait for someone else to come along and save your pathetic hide."

He smiled nastily, but the gesture reminded Harry more of a predator baring its teeth than a smile.

"But no one's going to save you now, Potter."

Harry shifted subtly where he was sitting, testing his shoulder to see how much movement it could take. Not much, apparently; it screamed in his socket at the slightest motion. "Who are you?" asked Harry asked through gritted teeth. "What do you want with me?"

"Melvin Gibbon," said the first brother without heistation, the one who had snapped his wand. "And this is my brother Lambert Gibbon. We had another brother, but I don't suppose you'd remember him."

Harry blinked, confused. _Gibbon_. The name did sound familiar. "Didn't he die?"

"Oh, he _does _remember," said Lambert with feigned delight. "Yes, you contemptuous little scab, he did die. He took a Killing Curse at Hogwarts, when all your friends from the Order were rushing in to rescue you. As per usual."

Harry remembered, then - Gibbon had been at the Department of Mysteries, and he had been there that night on the Astronomy Tower as well, the night that Snape had -

Harry abruptly clamped down on that thought. There was no use in getting incensed. If Voldemort had taught him anything, it was to remain calm in moments of distress. Thinking about Snape certainly did nothing to keep him clear-headed.

"But why weren't you with us just now, heading to the attack?" Harry scowled at them. "I thought that Voldemort had summoned every able-bodied idiot to come fight for the cause."

The flinch that Voldemort's name inspired was apparently enough to let this remark go unnoticed. When they had recovered, Lambert sent a sidelong glare in his brother's direction. "Because we are the only damn twins in wizarding history to have both a Squib _and _a wizard."

"All the better to find you, Potter," said Melvin, ignoring his brother's rage. "We may be two of the only Snatchers on duty today, but we might not have had another chance to get to you - to get _revenge_."

"Revenge?" Harry all but squeaked. He pushed himself up further, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, and tried to move himself backward. A useless endeavor, as it turned out; they both merely took another step forward, and Harry found himself horribly out of breath. "What did I ever do to you? It's not my fault you're a Squib."

Lambert sniggered, while Melvin looked enraged. "Not because I'm a Squid, you fool; because our brother is _dead_." His blue eyes were bright with anger behind his glasses. "It's all your fault - all of this is your fault."

"We're not the only ones who think so, either," added Lambert. "They hate you. Every single one of them - they all hate you down to your hideous scar, Potter. We kill you, we get some honor back for the Gibbon name, which has been otherwise spoiled by the death of our brother and the birth of a fucking Squib."

"_Lambert_," Melvin hissed furiously, but Harry cut him off.

"Voldemort will be raving." He knew immediately that this was the right thing to say; for the first time, the blond brothers looked very uncomfortable. Encouraged, Harry continued, "He will be absolutely furious - he killed three different people who looked at me the wrong way today, y'know."

Okay, so that was exaggerating by at least two, but a little dramatics didn't hurt when two maniacs had you cornered with a broken arm in the middle of an empty forest.

Lambert was the first to recover. "But the Dark Lord won't find out, Potter." A nasty smirk twisted his lips, and he stepped forward again. Harry noticed for the first time that he had a wand in his hand, resting against his thigh. "All they will find is your mangled, broken body next to a rogue broom. No magic or curses - just beaten to death by the harsh fall. An unfortunate accident, don't you think? How very sad the Dark Lord will be; but we, we will be _heroes_ in the eyes of the others." His own eyes glinted maniacally, catching the sunlight just right.

"So it was you who did this to my broom, then?"

"Oh, we're going to do a lot worse to you by the time we're done," said Melvin, and he aimed a hard, non-magical kick right into Harry's bad arm.

Howling, Harry went sprawling across the forest floor, pain searing through his shoulder. Lambert raised his wand, and Harry rose up with it, dangling in the air like a limp rag doll. Held there by magic, Harry could do nothing as Melvin stepped forward, rolling up the sleeves of his robes and smiling nastily.

"Get ready for a bit of Muggle justice," the Squib said. Harry opened his mouth to inform him that he was, in fact, quite familiar with 'Muggle justice' - had suffered through twelve years of Harry Hunting at the hands of his fat, sadistic, and very Muggle cousin, actually - but then a fist connected solidly with Harry's numb cheek, and his teeth went right into his tongue and his mouth was filled with blood again.

_Tom_. Where the hell was he? In the breath before the Squib took another swing up into Harry's gut, Harry sought out his lover's mind. He was met only with the same angry heat as before - nearly thrown out on his arse, in fact. What the hell was going on up there that would still have Voldemort so angry? How had he not yet noticed that Harry was gone? The angry rejection was almost another kind of _later _from Voldemort, non-verbal this time, but ten times worse for the desperation of Harry's current situation.

_There's not going to be a later_, Harry thought, just as another blow hit him in the temple, and the world began to spin.

This was it. He was defenseless. There was nothing he could do. He couldn't manage wandless magic like Voldemort could. There was nothing they had gone over in their lessons, nothing that he'd been taught, that would prepare him for a situation without his wand.

And then inspiration struck him. Legilimency. Harry had managed that without his wand, multiple times now, just as he could perform Occlumency wandlessly. Not exactly the most offensive magic that he knew - but it was the only thing he knew, his only chance -

The Squib drew his fist back again, this time aiming for Harry's face, but Harry was ready for him. Gathering his magical energy, Harry locked eyes with the man and _struck_ before the fist could surge forward.

The man's mind, empty of magic, was like an orange without the peels - utterly defenseless. Harry heard him give out a scream, but he ignored him, pressing, digging, _tearing_ through his thoughts with razor-sharp claws, easily plucking out the man's worst memories and parading them in front of his mind's eye like some kind of sick show at the cinema. A little boy sitting in a bathroom, a wand in his hand and a book on his lap, weeping as he whispered _Lumos _over and over to no avail. His brothers receiving letters to Hogwarts, and the shame in his parents' eyes when his letter never came. A Muggle girl with black hair, beautiful and clearly holding a piece of the boy's heart, being tortured to death by his father. His brother, lying dead in a coffin.

Melvin's knees buckled suddenly, and he fell to the ground, weeping hysterically, eye contact broken. Lambert's eyes widened in terror, going back and forth from the man curled in the snow to the boy standing unsteadily before him. Feeling nauseous and very guilty, Harry broke the spell holding him with little effort and, taking advantage of the man's shock, seized his stubby wand in one swift motion.

Breathing hard, Harry stumbled backward until he backed into a tree, holding the wand with a surprisingly steady hand in front of him, trained on the two men. Lambert looked about ready to piss himself now; his brother was still crying on the forest floor.

"What - what are you going to do to us?" Lambert stammered.

Harry didn't even need to think to answer that question. If he couldn't reach Voldemort through his mind, he'd just have to find another way to get the man's attention.

Pointing the wand suddenly to the sky, Harry said the first spell that he could think of. "_Morsmordre!_"

Black smoke shot out from his wand, racing up into the sky in a rush. Harry felt the Dark magic rush through his right arm like a heavy, black wave, making it hard for him to breathe. Lambert's mouth dropped open, his eyes widening.

"No!" he cried, stumbling backward. "No, no, you can't, it summons them, it summons -"

There were at least a dozen loud _cracks _in the forest, and a second later, they were surrounded by a ring of men and women in official Ministry robes, wands trained on all three of them. Harry's eyes widened in shock; how had they come here so quickly?

A short, ugly man stepped forward, a long piece of parchment in his hands.

"According to the Ministry Decree for the Regulation of Dark Magic, only official Death Eaters of the Dark Lord are licensed to conjure a Dark Mark," he intoned, stepping into the circle and pushing up a pair of narrow spectacles with the hand that wasn't holding a the parchment. "I'm afraid I have to place you under arrest for -"

"Blimey, that's Harry Potter!" someone cried. The short man blinked several times and looked up, eyes widening in shock as he took in Harry for the first time.

Harry leaned slightly against the tree, uncomfortable beneath all of their stares, uncertain of how serious his injuries were. Gibbon's wand was still clutched in his trembling hand. His whole body was shaking now, actually, and the pain in his shoulder was so intense that he thought he might faint.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" someone else yelled, a brown-haired fellow with a mustache. Harry's eyes widened with a jolt; Kingsley Shacklebolt was standing right beside the man, with a look of awful realization on his face.

"POTTER!"

Oh, thank heavens. Harry sagged against the tree, his hand dropping shakily to his side. He never thought he would have been glad to hear Snape spitting his name that way, but all he could think about was the fact that he was saved - Snape would bring him right back to Voldemort, away from these horrible people. Everything was going to be okay.

"Is it impossible for you to keep yourself still on that damnable broomstick for even just a -"

Snape stopped talking abruptly as he rounded the tree. He was silent as he took in the Gibbon brothers, the Ministry officials, the broken pieces of Harry's Thunderbolt, and, finally, Harry himself.

"He's covered in blood," a woman whispered in the ensuing silence.

Harry sagged a little further against the tree. He felt very dizzy, and raised a hand to his throbbing head. His fingers came away covered in red. So that was where all the blood-soaked snow had come from.

"He needs to see a Healer!" someone demanded. Harry's eyes fluttered shut.

"He needs to come with me," replied Snape silkily, and a firm arm came around Harry's shoulders to steer him away. Unfortunately, this attempt at a gentle touch only sent a shock of terrible pain through Harry's shoulder, and Harry cried out, tearing away from him.

It was the final straw for his battered body. With a great shudder, Harry's eyes rolled back into his head, and he slipped once again into the calm, numbing darkness.

* * *

><p>Looking back, the thing that Narcissa would remember most was the blood.<p>

She had never seen so much of it in her life. It had covered his hair, his cheeks, his throat, his shirt. At first, she had tried to clean it off with her wand, but the horror gripping her had made her hand shake. He had groaned so loudly in response to her efforts that she'd had to throw up three different silencing charms.

The Dark Lord could not know. This had to be silent, painless.

And so she had cleaned him by hand, wandlessly. Wetting a cloth, she had started with his face, then his throat, carefully applying healing salves to each wound as she passed it, direct from Severus' private stores. She had never had any experience as a Healer, but she was better than any of the others, having dressed many of Lucius' wounds whenever the Dark Lord needed something on which to take out his anger.

She was the best one for the job. She was the only one for the job.

Next were the potions. She had also taken those from Severus' supplies, and she sat his limp, unconscious body up in the bed several times a day to tilt them down his throat. He had been resistant at first, but every day that passed he got a little better, swallowed them a little easier.

She had them all memorized, the schedule engrained on the backs of her eyelids: a blood-replenishing potion, five ounces, twice a day for the first week, once a day for the next three; a draught of dreamless sleep, a whole cup, once every night before she went to bed; a pain-killing potion, three ounces, very potent according to the label, to be taken every four and a half hours; a nutrient solution, three times a day, every day, for as long as he didn't wake up.

And Narcissa did not want him to wake up. She had another potion for that, sitting on his bedside dresser, but she saw the way that he grimaced and moaned before she gave him the pain-killing draught, saw the fierce, angry scars on his face, across his body. Waking up meant facing that pain consciously, facing everything that had happened. She didn't want him to deal with it, not yet.

He slept in a hidden room in the attic, away from the others. He slept, and slept, and slept some more. Narcissa continued to clean his wounds, to tip the healing potions down his throat. She sang to him softly while he slept, lullabies that she had sung to Draco as a child. She would always begin to weep before she could finish the song.

She was grieving, they said, grieving for her dead son. Bella thought that she had gone mad, and she surely wasn't the only one who thought so. Lucius wouldn't speak to her, hadn't spoken to her since their Wonderful Lord had destroyed their son from the inside out. He was grieving too, she supposed. The silence was just his way of dealing with the pain. But it hurt her. They hadn't spoken a word to each other since he had told her to dispose of the body.

But it mattered not. Let them think what they wanted. As long as they allowed Narcissa to stay up here in the attic, as long as they left her alone to wallow in her awful grief for her poor, dead son, she had a reason to go on. She had a purpose, this thin boy lying in the small bed, sick and sleeping and healing.

Narcissa brushed her fingers against his forehead. She pulled the cloak over his sleeping body, and he disappeared beneath it - all but a lock of silver-blond hair, scrubbed clean by his mother's gentle hands as he slept dreamlessly beneath the cloak.


	29. V:3

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort. Mild adult content.

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

A/N: Thank you for the reviews everybody! Hope you all had a wonderful Valentine's Day :) Also, if you've got the time, check out the new Harry/Voldemort website and forums that we recently made: harrymort (dot) com. We'd love to see you around :)

* * *

><p>3.<p>

There is no time in the world of the dreamless. Weeks and seconds pass in the same breath when there is no sun to rise, no moonlight to hush the world into a soothing slumber. There is only sleep, endless sleep, dreamless sleep, and such sleep does not know one second from the next.

No - instead, there is only space, long and endless, that stretches between the brief moments of near-lucidity. It is filled with dark shadows that move against gray light, the dulled, meaningless murmur of hushed voices, until all goes still and the wonderful edge of the drinking glass parts his pliant lips, drawing him back into the vast expanse where there is only sleep and gray, gray, gray in dull, vacant shades.

* * *

><p>It was not so, in the beginning. The gray film dulling his thoughts, his senses, had been thin and fragile once, susceptible to ripples and tears that had registered like bursts of brilliant color in Harry's muddled mind.<p>

_The cool kiss of a damp cloth, tenderly pressed against the stinging scratches on his arms, his face; and then the cup against his lips, lulling him back into the Gray._

_The cries of a man howling in pain, screaming over and over again, until there was the slam of a door and the nudging of the cup at his mouth. _

_His own pain, waking him like a bucket of acid spilled on his left arm - agony in his shoulder, his elbow, that seemed to go on and on, endlessly - _and pain knows no time, neither hours nor seconds, when the sleeping has melted into the waking and the agony can last a minute or a century _- until the sweet, blessed cup was finally tipped into his mouth again and his convulsing throat wrapped him in his gray blanket, his empty world of shadows and nothingness._

Such moments were fleeting, only seconds long in passing. Harry forgot them almost as soon as they had left him.

* * *

><p>His sleep was not always dreamless. Sometimes, the shadows would merge into something more solid, morph into a cloudless sky, a windless afternoon. Sometimes, Harry would find himself in a field, with a high cliff that dropped off into the sea; other times, the shadows would form a still, silent wood. There was no day or night here, only still, gray light, trees that disappeared whenever he reached out and touched them, grasses that did not sway in any breeze or move beneath Harry's fingers.<p>

The dreams were also fleeting. Harry clung to them, clung to the trees, the grass, as the gray blanket began to fall from the sky, as a cup was pressed to a boy's lips in a room very far away. He fought the numbness, fought the gray emptiness every time.

But the Gray would always win.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, Harry would wander. Confusion would ride into the placating calm that usually kept him standing idly in one place, watching the trees and the grass with vague indifference. He would begin to wonder where he was, who he was, what was happening.<p>

Some days, he would remember more than others. The sensation of falling very fast, an emotion

(_fear help panic fear death help me Tom TomTomTomTom)_

that he did not recognize in this calm, peaceful place. Blue eyes as cold as ice, meaning to harm him, kill him.

Other days, he would not remember anything at all, not who he was nor what had happened in his life before the Gray had consumed him - or if there even was a life before the Gray, outside of the Gray, if there was anything except for the all-encompassing, calming apathy of this lifeless world. He forgot the smell of other people, the sound of laughter, the warmth of sunlight on his skin. It was very hard for him to recall what colors looked like.

No matter how much or how little he remembered, however, there was always one word that would haunt him. It would pop up unexpectedly - carved into a tree, perhaps, or blazing color in the sky, whispered in a refreshing, sudden breeze that kissed his ear and crept into his heart:

_Tom_.

* * *

><p>There was another.<p>

At first, Harry thought that it was just the wind, or a wild animal, or perhaps even the light playing tricks through the tree branches. But then he remembered

(_and what a foreign sensation that was, to remember_)

that there was no wind, or life, or daylight in the world of the Gray. And then that burning, niggling curiosity drove him forward to investigate.

The first time that Harry saw him, he was standing in a clearing. He was dressed all in white, with his back turned and his face to the sky. There was something very strange about him, something that Harry couldn't quite place. He was tall, taller than Harry was, and something about his profile made Harry feel as though he had known this person before.

"Hello," said Harry, and he stepped into the clearing.

The boy whirled around, and there was that unpleasant emotion plastered on his face as he took Harry in, violent fear and panic that Harry could only recall in small, fleeting quantities.

"I -" Harry began.

But before he could finish, the boy turned around and fled.

I know your face.

Harry frowned, watching him disappear into the trees. He did not follow; he had no desire to make the boy more uncomfortable. Perhaps he had wronged this person, when he had known him? Before?

Before, when there were colors and feelings and warmth in the world.

It was then, eyes widening, that Harry realized what had been so strange about the boy.

He had yellow in his hair.

* * *

><p>Fingertips, very cool against his cheek.<p>

"_He has a fever."_

The shadows were becoming solid, swirling together, morphing into one singular form. Gray eyes looked down on him, pitied him, concerned for him.

_No, that's not right_, Harry thought. _They're red_.

But no matter how hard he tried, he could not make out the color in the face leaning over him. He squinted and blinked, but he was blinded by the Gray, reality faded into colorless shades of dream.

"_Drink, Harry,_" the voice said. The blessed cup, so familiar to him now, pressed against his lips. Cool liquid spilled down his chin as he sipped, pain throbbing in his arm. "_Sleep._"

Harry slept.

* * *

><p>Harry was falling.<p>

There were clouds below him - gray, of course - but they didn't seem to be getting any closer, no matter how fast or how long Harry fell. He didn't know how long he had been falling - there was no time here, did you know? - but it was long enough that Harry had almost grown content to continue falling, falling forever.

Could one simply fall forever? At first, Harry had been afraid that he was going to hurt himself when he finally crashed into the ground. There had been a broomstick involved, and that ugly emotion that Harry didn't want to think about, but by now, Harry had shed both of these things, and he was simply letting himself fall, fall, on and on.

It might be nice to fall forever. It was as close as a person could get to flying without a broom or a pair of wings, and Harry had always loved to fly, had even dreamt of flying all by himself. Flying meant freedom, the endless sky, peace.

But falling was not flying. Every once in a while, Harry would catch sight of the clouds below him, and then he would remember what lay below _them_.

Flying meant having the sky all to himself, forever; but when he falls, he eventually has to hit the ground.

* * *

><p>The second time Harry saw the boy with the yellow hair, he had come to find Harry instead.<p>

Harry sat in the field, quiet and calm. The sky was gray and empty, the sea gray and still.

And there was someone watching him.

Harry looked up, and his gaze met with eyes the color of the ocean. The _real _ocean, mind you, not the colorless one down below, and this was the first time that Harry had ever drawn such a distinction. Full of blues and grays and a shy hint of green, and Harry had forgotten what such color had looked like.

"You're Harry Potter."

The boy with the yellow hair was looking down at Harry uncertainly, his left foot placed slightly behind the right, as though Harry were prone to leap up and attack him at any moment.

"Harry Potter," Harry repeated. The words felt very familiar on his tongue. He smiled brightly. "Why, yes; yes, I suppose I am."

They continued to look at each other. Something in the boy's gaze seemed so, so familiar, and Harry decided that he had certainly known this boy once, had perhaps even been friends with him.

"Are you Tom?" Harry asked on a whim.

The boy's reaction was violent. He stumbled backward, his face contorting horribly, his hands coming up to fly in front of his face. Harry stood up quickly, not wanting to scare his new companion away.

"I'm sorry," Harry began, "I was just -"

"Like hell you are!" the boy interrupted, and he backed away further with every step that Harry took toward him. "Do you know him? Is he coming here?"

Harry blinked. Not Tom, then. "I don't know," he said, an honest response to both questions. "Do _you_ know him?"

The boy scowled. It looked very fitting on his face; Harry reckoned that he scowled quite a lot. "I'm running from him," he said. "He's an utter bastard. You should stay away from him. He'll hurt you."

Harry scratched his neck, feeling very confused. That didn't make sense. The thought of Tom had always brought him comfort and happiness, a sense of safety and affection. Tom wouldn't hurt anyone.

"Where am I, anyway?" Harry said, a question that had never crossed his mind before until that very moment. He looked around him at the field, as though seeing it for the first time.

"Dead," replied the boy with the yellow hair nonchalantly, picking at his fingernails.

Harry blanched. "Dead?"

"I said dead, not deaf," the boy sneered. Harry decided that he didn't like him very much.

"But that's not right," said Harry. He folded his arms and frowned suspiciously at the boy. "I'm not dead."

"Well, I'm certain that I am," said the boy, "which means that you are too. Unless you have any better ideas."

Harry considered this. "But then where are all the other dead people? You're the only one I've seen around, and I've been here for ... a while."

The boy paused, thoughtful. "Perhaps this is a sort of heaven. For purebloods, like."

"That can't be."

"And why is that?"

"Because I don't even know what a pureblood is, so I can't be one," said Harry reasonably. "And besides, Tom would be in my heaven. Not ... _you_."

Cue scowl. "Tom wouldn't be in _anyone's _heaven," the boy said, glaring at Harry suspiciously. "Take my word for it. And believe me, Potter, you're not exactly my idea of a wet dream either."

Harry frowned. He didn't particularly like the way that the boy said his name. He had thought that it had sounded quite nice at first - _Harry Potter _- but the way that this boy spat it out, like a piece of foul-tasting meat, it didn't sound very nice at all. "He would be in _my_ heaven," replied Harry indignantly. "Just he and I."

The boy snorted. "Being dead hasn't done very much for your thick skull, I see."

"I'm not dead," Harry insisted, frowning. "Who are you, anyway?"

"I don't know," the boy admitted. "But I'm certainly not Tom, so don't go getting all gooey-eyed on me."

Harry glared. "I wouldn't believe you even if you said you were. Tom is nothing like you. And besides," he added, going on the same hunch he had felt when he'd seen the boy's face for the first time, "I feel like your name starts with the letter 'M.'"

The boy frowned, considering this idea. "M," he repeated slowly. "I suppose that would be acceptable. There are a lot of fine words that begin with the letter 'm,' you know. Take majestic, or masterly."

_Or moron_, Harry added silently, but decided that this was too rude to say aloud. He hardly knew this person, and even if the boy was coming off as a right prat, perhaps there was more to him beneath his scowls and sneers. Perhaps they could even be friends.

But if they could, Harry would never know. At that moment, the familiar touch of the cup to his lower lip threw his world into shadows, and with it went any recollection of the dream, the boy with the yellow hair, and Harry Potter.

He sipped from the cup and slept.

* * *

><p>"A full report, Severus."<p>

Voldemort fixed his gaze on the window. The snow had melted at least a week ago, leaving the ground damp and bare. He wouldn't know; he hadn't been outside in that time, perhaps even longer than that. The days without Harry seemed to meld into one another, a timeless blur filled with the image of a sleeping child and the strong scent of potions.

"He is recovering, my lord," said Severus from behind him, near the bed at which Voldemort was forcing himself not to look. "Slowly, but inevitably."

"A full recovery, I presume?"

Severus sighed. "Potter has suffered much worse transgressions to his person in the past, my lord - the majority of which were self-inflicted as a result of his own reckless stupidity." There was an obvious sneer in the other man's voice. "A handful of broken bones and a mild concussion is not likely to incapacitate him beyond repair, my lord, I assure you."

A smirk threatened to touch Voldemort's lips. He quashed it. He found that it'd been much easier to maintain his Dark Lord Facade without Harry to surprise those small, unexpected smiles from him all the time. "You don't particularly like the boy, do you, Severus?"

The tension in the air thickened almost tangibly. He could feel Severus considering this question, weighing the severity of his answer, swallowing.

"I will be perfectly honest with you, my lord," said Severus at last through gritted teeth. "Potter has been little more than an incompetent, insufferable brat throughout the course of my entire exhausting association with him. His utter lack of application to his academics has only been surpassed by his mediocrity in any subject that does not involve flying after shiny objects and inserting himself into situations far too dangerous for wizards of both his caliber and his brain size."

There was a pause as Severus took an even breath, and Voldemort knew that he was glaring at the sleeping child on the bed.

"That being said, my lord," Severus continued; it almost sounded painful for him to speak, "I would never behave in a manner that would jeopardize Potter's life. I may not particularly _like _the boy, as you've so aptly put it, but I recognize his importance to the cause and, if I may be so bold, to you as well, my lord. I was the first to notice his absence, if you'll recall."

"That you were." The Dark Lord remained at the window. "And I assume that you've taken care of the business with the Ministry?"

"Yes, my lord," said Severus, clearly on comfortable ground again. "They requested that I relay their sincerest apologies. They did not immediately recognize the offender's celebrity status -" (there was a hint of mocking disdain in the title that Voldemort ignored) "- and, as such, attempted to apprehend him accordingly."

Voldemort frowned. "Yes, well, see that it doesn't happen again."

"They were only following procedure, my lord; Potter is not licensed as a Death Eater, and the sacred mark has been legally limited by your orders to those who have taken the -"

"Yes, yes, I am well aware of my orders," Voldemort interrupted him irritably. He turned around, still averting his gaze from the boy sleeping in the bed. "Potter has my explicit permission to perform whatever magic he desires. If they must make another damned decree for him to do so, so be it - I'm sure that he won't be pleased with the attention, but he has yet to take my mark."

_And I'm not sure that he ever will._

Snape's lip curled. "Oh, worry not, my lord; Potter is quite accustomed to exceptions being made on his behalf."

Voldemort finally let his gaze roam to the boy in question. The slow, rhythmic movement of his chest beneath the blankets was the only indication that he was alive. Ugly purple bruises marred his face, and his left arm was swathed in bandages - four different bones broken in several different places, Severus had said. His face was still flushed from the fever that continued to haunt him, and there was another bandage on his forehead that Severus insisted needed proper treatment before the wound beneath could be vanished with Healing magic. To prevent infection, Severus said, but Voldemort could hardly wait for the day that he would be able to see Harry in tact and healthy again.

He thought about the hell that he had put Harry through - the boy's entire life, a series of violent schemes and attacks that had left him in conditions not much better than this - and felt a surge of self-resentment and anger.

"Yes," said the Dark Lord, with a bit of sadness in his voice. "Yes, I suppose he is."

* * *

><p>The shadows were thinning, little by little. He slowly became aware of his body, heavy and numb, starting with the air right above his face, moving down to his neck, his chest, his - oh, <em>ouch, <em>that hurt- his shoulders. Small, irrelevant details began to seep through his consciousness: the soft sound of a door closing, yellow sunlight warming his face, a dulled muffled pain in his arm, his head.

Harry shifted very slowly. His limbs felt gigantic, aching and non-responsive, as though they hadn't moved in a very long time. His lips parted automatically, expecting the smooth, cool lip of the cup against his mouth. But it did not come.

"Ever the anomaly, aren't you, Potter?" The voice was familiar, somewhere to Harry's immediate right. Silky, low, smug and hateful all in the same breath.

Snape.

Harry twisted forcefully in the opposite direction. Pain ripped through his shoulder at the sudden movement, and he keened, breath catching and eyes squeezing. Forgetting his loathing, he opened his quivering mouth again, feeling vaguely like a gaping fish.

"Whining. Such a delightful child you are, Potter." There was the sound of movement across the room; Harry leaned forward as much as his aching arm would allow, his lips trembling, but they did not meet with the rim of any cup to soothe his pains. "Taking after your godfather, perhaps? He too was prone to whine for scraps at the table."

"Guhhh," said Harry.

His head was beginning to throb, gray shadows fading in the face of sunlight that was suddenly far too bright.

"As compelling as your capacities for persuasion may be," Snape said, "I'm afraid that I am forced to deny you. Your next dosage isn't due for at least another hour, and the dangers of an overdose are, regrettably, too great a risk to take considering your fragile condition."

Harry wondered if he had been bestowed with a Seer's powers during his bout of unconsciousness; his eyes were still closed, but he could feel Snape smirking nastily at him with a certainty that was uncanny.

"It seems as though you'll have to suffer the consequences of your own carelessness for once, Mr. Potter."

The pain was dulled by a momentary surge of anger. Harry made a gurgling sound in the back of his throat that was half a growl, and he forced his bleary eyes to open. Without his glasses, he could only make out the blurry, black shape of Snape's dark robes and greasy hair a few feet away, but he attempted a glare in Snape's general direction as best he could in his sorry state.

"Sod off, Snape," he finally managed through gritted teeth.

The black blur moved in a motion that Harry recognized as Snape wrapping his robes around himself like a great, greasy bat, a gesture that did not usually bode well for the Gryffindor hourglass in the Great Hall.

"Rest assured, Mr. Potter, that it would be my ultimate pleasure to let you wallow in the agony of your recent disfigurement," said Snape silkily, "and it _would _be agony, Potter, agony beyond comprehension of even the largest stretch of your imagination. The potions healing your injuries are not particularly ... comfortable." And although Harry still could not make out his face, he knew that Snape was smirking again, was probably entertaining the thought of doing just that, the bastard. "But the Dark Lord desires me to play nursemaid today while he continues to investigate the source of the unfortunate incident last week."

Harry pushed himself slowly into a sitting position. He noticed for the first time that he was in the Dark Lord's chambers, the curtains pulled back to let daylight spill onto the bed. Even in his own bedroom, however, there was something simply too vulnerable about lying down flat when Snape was hovering over him. Perhaps Snape noticed this shift in control, because he suddenly swooped forward, his face becoming clear as he loomed over the bed to glower at Harry. The man glared at him for a solid few seconds before speaking, his voice soft and clipped.

"You may have the Dark Lord fooled, Potter, but I've known you since you were a snot-nosed, arrogant eleven-year-old."

"Haven't changed much, have I?" Harry said mildly. He wished that his ailment were more of the sinus-infected variety so that he could sneeze all over Snape's perfectly-kempt robes.

"We finally agree on something." Snape curled his lip. "Then perhaps we can also agree that you have never been able to keep still for longer than five minutes at a time."

Harry scowled, an expression that didn't have nearly as much right to hurt his head as it did, especially when it was so properly called for. "Pardon?" said Harry loudly. "Are you meaning to imply that I purposefully crashed headfirst into the middle of some random wood?"

Snape looked sorely tempted to spit an amending _sir _in his direction.

"I do not need to make implications when I know exactly what happened, Mr. Potter," he said, his voice growing increasingly more waspish in contrast. "It is the pattern that defines my wretched existence: Potter grows bored, Potter goes sniffing around for danger, and Professor Snape goes running after him to repair the chaos that Potter leaves in his wake."

Harry scowled again, as harshly as his aching temple would allow him. "That's utter bollocks and you know it. Someone was cursing my broom."

Snape snarled. "How very like you, Potter, to blame your idiotic impulses on anyone but yourself. Yes, the Dark Lord also believes the broom was malfunctioning, which is why he's currently down at the Ministry demanding an explanation."

"It wasn't malfunctioning!" Harry insisted. "Someone was cursing it - I can tell the difference."

"And what makes you think that anyone would have the energy or the willpower to curse -"

Snape stopped talking as abruptly as he might have if he'd been hit by a Silencing spell. Eyes widening, a very strange look came over his face, one that Harry had never seen before - an appropriate sentiment, considering that Snape was very rarely wrong about anything, and never in front of Harry.

Harry would have smiled with smug satisfaction if he hadn't just proved that someone was purposefully trying to kill him.

"I know what it feels like to be on a cursed broom," said Harry. "If you'll recall, when I was a snot-nosed, arrogant eleven-year-old -"

"I recall perfectly well, Potter," Snape spat, and he whirled around, turning his back to Harry. Probably couldn't stand looking so openly, shockingly wrong about something for once in his life, pompous git. "If _you'll _recall, I was the one casting the counter-curse that kept you alive."

Harry glared at his back. "Curious, that."

Snape's shoulders stiffened visibly, even as blurry as it was. "If you still find it surprising that I jeopardize my life on a regular basis to keep you safe, so help me, Potter, I will -"

"Curious," Harry continued loudly, talking right over his former professor, "that in your perfect recollection, you didn't recognize the curse this time 'round. What was stopping you from casting another counter-curse when you saw me spinning around like a magical top, hm? Perhaps you're a little too familiar with that particular curse, _Professor_."

Snape spun around in a whirl of black robes. "You - you dare - " Spluttering. That definitely wasn't a good sign. "You pretentious little brat, you truly think, after all this time, after all the opportunities - " He stalked forward furiously until he was scowling right over the bed again, his face swimming into focus. There were splotches of angry color high on his cheekbones.

"Where were you, then?" Harry demanded. "You kept glancing at me the whole ride! You're saying that you conveniently didn't look my way the entire time that I was - that my broom was - "

"Pardon, but I was preoccupied with alleviating the violence directed toward the man for whom you proclaim such loyalty and adoration!" Snape shot back fiercely. "You are very fortunate, Potter - _I _might find it curious that the Dark Lord's questionable new charge chose that particular moment to take a stroll in the wilderness were I not intimately familiar with your penchant for _wandering off_!"

"For the final time, my broom was cursed!" Harry bellowed, sitting up as far as his arm would allow. "And you are not _intimately familiar _with anything outside of a cauldron, least of all me! You know nothing about me! You've done nothing but antagonize me since I was eleven fucking years old!"

"I've done nothing but rescue your insubordinate, ill-behaved backside from certain death since the first day you walked into my classroom!"

"And - and what do you mean, violence directed toward the Dark Lord?" Panic gripped Harry like a vice, and he sat up a little straighter, ignoring the screaming protest in his shoulder. The fingers of his right hand groped beside him, searching the nightstand for a pair of spectacles that wasn't there. "Is Tom okay? Is he hurt? What did you do to him?"

"What did _I _do?" Snape all but roared. "You _dare _- "

"You've already murdered someone who trusted you!" yelled Harry. "And I swear, if you did anything to hurt Tom -"

"I really would prefer it if you wouldn't call me that."

Voldemort was standing in the doorway. Harry did not know how long he had been there. Yelling from both parties ceased immediately.

"Tom," said Harry weakly, ignoring the half-hearted prickle of annoyance in his scar. He didn't know what else to say.

"I take it that he should still be asleep, Severus?" the Dark Lord said. The sound of his voice was like a cool drink of water to Harry after the dull silence of the coma and the infuriating tones of Severus Snape. "I don't expect that you would have woken him intentionally when I specifically told you I would not be present at the manor this afternoon?"

Snape's posture had straightened as soon as Voldemort had started speaking. He looked like nothing had happened, business as usual, save for two high splotches of angry color on his sallow cheeks. "He overcame the dosage," said Snape; Harry was satisfied to see that his voice was not entirely steady. "He'll be due for another in three quarters of an hour."

Something nudged gently at the side of Harry's head. The boy turned to look and found his glasses, mid-air and completely repaired, prodding at his ear. With a small smile, Harry accepted them and slid them onto his nose.

Voldemort was staring at him.

Harry shivered and stared right back.

"If we can simply keep him subdued until it is time for his next dose - which may be difficult, I warn you; it is said that patients suffering from withdrawal may dissolve into animalistic violence, although such behavior would hardly be a novelty for Mr. Potter here - "

"I don't want another dosage," Harry said suddenly. He looked over at Snape, who had absolutely transformed in the Dark Lord's presence, all tight lips and straight-backed formality. Harry scowled.

"The boy is delusional, my lord," Snape drawled, not bothering to look at Harry. "He was nearly in tears when I refused him, just before you arrived. I had to pry the cup from his greedy little fingers."

_No, _Harry thought desperately, fixing his gaze back on Voldemort. _No, that's not true. I want to stay awake, please_.

Voldemort gave Harry an inscrutable look for a very long moment. Harry attempted to make his feelings about the subject as plain as could be on his face.

Finally, Voldemort said, "Are you still in pain?"

Merlin, was he, but he would never give Snape the satisfaction of complaining about it. "No," he lied, "no, I'm perfectly fine." He forced a thin smile, raised his left arm very slowly, and winced.

The smallest smirk tugged at the corners of Voldemort's lips, and then it vanished as quickly as it came. If Harry hadn't been watching for it, he wouldn't have even known that it had been there.

"No more Dreamless Sleep, then, Severus," Voldemort said conclusively. Fire raged behind Snape's carefully controlled eyes. Harry very nearly stuck his tongue out at him. "We will begin a painkilling regiment while Potter's injuries continue to heal."

_Don't call me that, _Harry said silently.

_Don't call me Tom_, Voldemort retaliated.

"He will still need rest, my lord," said Snape stiffly. "In copious quantities. Unless, that is, we were to bring in a professional Healer who could heal Mr. Potter's arm with - "

"There is none whom I trust," Voldemort interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I trust _you, _Severus. The potions will be enough."

Snape bowed his head obediently. "Yes, my lord."

"I expect you will need to begin brewing immediately," Voldemort said. He was still looking at Harry very strangely. When Snape didn't make a movement to leave, Voldemort glanced at him sharply. "You may take your leave now, Severus."

Snape cast one more resentful look in Harry's direction, one that promised that this conversation wasn't over. Harry glared right back; he would be more than prepared to continue this argument at a later date. And then Snape was stalking out of the room, giving a stiff bow to the Dark Lord on his way out and closing the door behind him.

Voldemort was still staring at Harry with that indecipherable expression. The boy shifted uncomfortably. He was suddenly very aware of how pale and unattractive he must look. He didn't know how long he'd been out for, but he couldn't have had a shower in all of that time, and, despite Ron's insistence to the contrary, cleaning charms were not nearly as effective as a good scrubbing with some soap and a washcloth.

"Would you like me to bow on my way out as well?" said Harry, trying to ease the uncomfortable silence. It didn't help that his voice was still a little gravelly from disuse, something he hadn't noticed when he'd been busy having it out with Snape.

"That won't be necessary," Voldemort replied very seriously. "You are to concentrate on making a full recovery. In the meantime," and here, he indulged in a small smile again, "perhaps we can soften Severus until he bows to you as well."

Harry tried to imagine Snape bowing in his direction. It was such a preposterous thought that he snorted out loud. "I'm not sure that the universe would be able to handle that," he said. "Against the laws of nature and all."

"And our ... relationship?" Voldemort asked, a tiny smirk quirking his lips upward. "You consider it any more natural?"

Harry blinked. "It's the most natural thing in the world," he answered, without even putting a thought to the matter. "We share a soul. How much more natural can you get?"

It was the war that was unnatural. It was everyone else that was wrong. But there was nothing righter than their connection to each other, nothing more natural than the push and pull of their thoughts on each others' minds, like opposite tides of the same ocean.

"A heart-wrenching sentiment, Harry, but it is all in vain if you do not reach out to me in times of peril," said Voldemort with a frown.

Harry scowled then; he couldn't help it. "Blimey, why didn't I think of that?" he said sarcastically. "Especially since you're always so eager to listen."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "You always have my ear, Harry, especially when we occupy two halves of the same mind."

Harry snorted, unable to cut short the flood of bitterness surging through him. "Except for when you block me out. Later? How many times can you say 'later' before you realize something is wrong?"

Voldemort approached the bed, frowning. "I'm afraid that I don't - "

"You know exactly what I'm talking about!" said Harry loudly. And it was always like this, wasn't it? Even after all this time, even after all their practice with self-control and emotional stability, Harry could never bottle his anger, reign it in and use it to his advantage the way that Voldemort had always encouraged him to. "I needed to talk to you, and now look where I am! The broomstick, it was - "

"Broken," Voldemort interrupted him calmly. "I've just returned from the Ministry. Yaxley came forward and admitted that he had not done a thorough inspection. We were flying on test models."

Harry blinked. "Test models?" he repeated. He had been so sure that his broom had been cursed. And there was something, something else, just on the tip of his brain, that had been so very important to share with Voldemort. But Harry's fuzzy memories of that awful afternoon were making it impossible to pinpoint just what it was. "But ... I could have sworn that - "

"Yaxley made a full confession before an emergency session at the Wizengamot, Harry." He stopped directly before the bed. "You needn't dwell on this any longer. I've taken care of it. Yaxley will be dealt with accordingly."

Somehow, this didn't make him feel any better.

"You still didn't pay me any attention." Harry felt himself begin to pout and hardened his face; he felt himself begin to glare and softened it. "I could have been dancing around your Death Eaters starkers and you still wouldn't have even spare a glance for me. Just another stubborn, '_later_.'"

Amusement passed over Voldemort's face. "Don't be so certain, Harry," he said darkly. "I'm not sure myself that I would have been able to resist that particular temptation."

Harry did pout then, despite the pleased flush that rushed to his cheeks. Remarkable, how all the color in his face could remember where to go in about two seconds flat. "It wasn't a joke," he muttered.

"Of course," Voldemort crooned, and long fingers carded gently through Harry's hair. Harry somehow managed not to lean up into the touch, continuing to fix Voldemort with a steady frown. "And for that, I am sorry. I nearly lost you. I won't allow it to happen again."

Harry blinked with big eyes, utterly uncomprehending. Had Lord Voldemort just admitted that he was wrong? And as if the apology weren't shocking enough, Harry noticed with surprise that there was pain in the Dark Lord's eyes

(_red, the way they were supposed to be, natural and vivid and real_)

as he looked on Harry's injuries.

Voldemort stooped down so that he was at eye-level with Harry, who was still sitting up in the bed, and he reached forward carefully, tenderly, tracing the bandages from Harry's elbow to his shoulder.

_He apologized_, Harry thought dazedly. _He apologized, to me._

"Why bandages?" Harry said softly, still trying to process this recent information. "Madame Pomfrey could heal broken bones in minutes."

Voldemort adjusted a piece of wayward dressing around Harry's upper arm, which had come a bit loose during Harry's straining attempts to sit up.

"So Severus has reminded me on a daily basis," Voldemort replied, "but I simply do not trust anyone else with your care. There has been no one but myself and Severus in this room for the past seven days. Time is the price for his loyalty, however. Severus is a Potions master, but he is no Healer. Potions can only do so much so quickly." He paused to smooth the bandage into a fold, securing it in place. "Although your progress has been ... slower than I would have it, you have been recovering steadily."

"Why do you trust him?" Harry blurted out. "He hates me."

Voldemort looked as though he were trying not to smile. Harry had seen him do it often enough by now to recognize the expression.

"Severus doesn't hate you, Harry," the Dark Lord said, and raised a placating hand to sift through Harry's hair again. "He is actually quite fond of you. I haven't seen him this fired up about anything since ..." He paused, eyes darting away for just a moment as he seemed to reconsider this statement. "Well, not for very many years."

Harry snorted. "Fired up. Right." He wondered ruefully if he was always going to be surrounded by older men insisting that Snape was loyal to them. From what he could see, Snape was the most disloyal, self-serving git to ever give Slytherin its name. "I suppose I should feel honored that he makes such an exception for me." Oh, the irony.

"I might say the same of you," Voldemort said with a small smile, "but you are already quite familiar with fiery, my little lion."

Harry leaned back in the bed a little, suddenly very tired. For all of his insistence that he was feeling well again, his body was still aching like it had been thrown in front of a train. He supposed that, in a way, it had been. "So are you going to tell me what happened?"

A brief flare of fury lit in Voldemort's eyes, so potent that Harry could feel it in his scar. For a moment, Harry was afraid it was for him. But it passed as quickly as it came on, and Voldemort's face relaxed into its calm, blank mask again. "That is none of your concern right now," Voldemort answered. "My Death Eaters are restless. Sometimes, it is necessary to sort out the weeds from the more productive members of my family."

"But what happened?" Harry asked with concern. He lay his head gently against the pillow, and his arm thanked him for the relief. "Snape said that someone was attacking you."

Much to Harry's dismay, the Dark Lord did not appear to be listening. "You are very tired." He frowned and passed a hand over Harry's cheek. "And your fever still hasn't broken. You must rest a little longer yet, Harry."

"But -"

"The disturbances were dealt with more than a week ago," Voldemort said firmly. "You need not worry yourself about it right now."

_Disturbances_. "But what about Tonks?" Harry said suddenly, terror making his blood turn to ice. "What about the Order? Did you ... did they ..." He began to pull himself up into a sitting position again, panic making his disregard the ache in his head and the tugging at his eyelids.

"The house was abandoned when we returned there," Voldemort replied. He did not sound angry. He laid a gentle hand on Harry's good shoulder and eased him back into the bed. "It is no matter. We will discuss it when you are feeling up to it."

"I'm up to it now," Harry mumbled, but the relief singing through him seemed to be the cue his injured body had been expecting. His head felt very heavy. He closed his eyes in time to hear Voldemort chuckle softly, the smiles the Dark Lord's had been fighting escaping in a rush of soft, pleasant laughter.

"Sleep," Voldemort said. Harry's spectacles were gently removed from his nose, and someone pulled the bedclothes up to his chin. Harry thought vaguely that the Dark Lord's presence in the room with him was a far more effective solution for good rest than any silly cup that Snape could shove in his face. "Sleep, Harry. The world and all of its troubles will still be here when you wake up again."

* * *

><p>Harry dreamt in vivid color of falling, falling once more through a bright blue sky, the clouds a false, fleece floor below him.<p>

* * *

><p>The next few days passed tediously. Harry still slept, although not as continuously as he had under the influence of the potion. Voldemort very rarely left the room, sitting at a desk he moved near Harry's bedside and soothing him whenever the boy awoke painfully from his sleep. Snape continued to make regular appearances to administer doses of potions designed to help control Harry's pain, but he did not make another go at Harry, especially with Voldemort sitting in the same room.<p>

Voldemort would talk to him whenever Harry awoke, telling him stories from his early days as a Dark Lord, explaining the nuances of focus and intent and how they affected Dark magic, rattling off facts like a magical encyclopedia. Voldemort made history come alive in ways that made Professor Binns' long-winded monotonous rants seem like an entirely different school subject altogether.

When they didn't talk - and that was only when Voldemort did not yet notice that Harry had awoken, determined as he was to keep Harry occupied and happy - the Dark Lord worked tirelessly at the desk instead. Voldemort spent many hours sitting at that desk, a quill in one hand, a stack of papers in front of him. Harry could make out official Ministry seals on some of them, but there were also other seals that he did not recognize, with different colors and different languages scrawled on envelopes and letterheads.

The first time that Harry had realized that Voldemort was writing a letter in a language other than English, his surprise had been so palpable that Voldemort had sensed it even through his concentration.

"How many languages do you speak?" Harry asked after Voldemort had Summoned cups of water and a dose of the nutrient-replenishing aid. It was no use attempting to ask questions until Voldemort had made sure that Harry had taken all of his medication.

"A few," said Voldemort, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

"That doesn't answer my question," said Harry, and he took a sip of the bitter-tasting potion when the Dark Lord gave him a pointed look.

"Fourteen," Voldemort replied when Harry had swallowed, "human tongues, that is."

Harry stared for a good few seconds before he realized he was gaping. "Why?"

"Incantations themselves may derive primarily from Latin, but there are a few spells that are influenced by other tongues as well," he said. "It is also useful, obviously, for communication. I find that I am much more persuasive when others can understand me in their mother tongue."

There was something about this statement that put a knot in Harry's stomach. "Is that what you're writing all those letters for, then?" he asked. "Who are you persuading?"

"It is none of your concern right now, Harry," Voldemort said. "We were discussing the Muggle global wars yesterday, were we not? Are you aware of the effect that Gellert Grindewald had on the orchestration of World War II? Where did we leave off?"

This was how it went whenever Harry attempted to ask any questions about the world outside their small bedroom. _When you're well_. That phrase was thrown around at least three times a day, every day. It was frustrating, to say the least, especially since Harry seemed to be healing at the pace of a wriggling flobberworm.

Whenever Voldemort worked, Harry attempted to look over every inch of the bedroom from his vantage point in the bed for any evidence of the conflict taking place outside, but he found nothing. He could never make out the writing on the desk, and there was no hint of Horcruxes or chests that Harry could see. He even noticed that Voldemort seemed to have removed the Penseive that had been hidden in the wall; the golden snakes protecting it had vanished.

It was at least another long, tedious week before Voldemort deemed Harry well enough to stand up. Granted, the potions that Snape had been feeding him left him feeling very drowsy and his arm with only a bearable amount of pain, but Harry would have been able to stand at least a few days earlier if it weren't for the Dark Lord's mollycoddling.

The first time Harry wanted to get out of the bed, he had simply told Voldemort that he was ready to stand.

"No," said Voldemort. He was sitting in the chair beside the bed, a book detailing the branches of the Ministry government open in his lap.

Harry frowned. "But I'm ready."

"No, you're not," the Dark Lord responded simply. "You still require rest. I do not want to damage any progress that you've made."

"But," Harry began.

"No," Voldemort cut him off. "My final answer. Now pay attention; the process to become a member of the Wizengamot is very complex."

Clearly, coming right out and asking the Dark Lord had been too Gryffindor-ish a tactic. Fortunately, Harry was never lacking in ideas of the more Slytherin variety.

The next day, Harry spent at least an hour lying very still and breathing deeply through his mouth. _I'm asleep_, Harry thought, over and over. _Sleeping. _ Finally, when Voldemort appeared to be sufficiently absorbed in writing a particularly long letter, Harry sat up very very slowly and began to swing a leg over the side of the bed, not making a single sound as he moved.

Voldemort did not even turn his head. "No."

"But Tom - "

"Back in the bed, Potter, you need your rest."

"Don't call me Potter."

"Then don't call me Tom."

Rats. Harry sighed. Perhaps even that hadn't been Slytherin enough. He would need to take it one step further.

The next day, Harry waited until Voldemort was suitably engaged in his work - specifically some sort of political matter involving a clash between a group of dementors and some goblins - before he made his next attempt. Sly and silent, Harry eased down the bedcovers, exposing his torso. He hiked up his nightshirt and ran his hands along his bare chest, teasing at his nipples and the tracing skin of his stomach. Back and forth, over and over, edging closer and closer but never quite below his waistline.

And Voldemort refused to even look Harry's way. Minutes passed, but Harry was not deterred from his purpose, brushing teasing, flighty touches all across his bare skin. And still, Voldemort did not so much as glance behind his shoulder. Harry was sure that the other man couldn't be completely oblivious to the squirming, pleasant heat on Harry's side of the connection, but he began making small, needy noises, just to be sure - and, sure enough, the scratching of the quill paused for just a moment before resuming. Just long enough for Harry to know that he had heard.

When it became clear that Voldemort was not going to budge from his desk - and that was perfectly according to plan, thank-you-very-much - Harry whimpered with just the right amount of breathiness. Trying not to smirk, Harry sat up theatrically, pleased that his shoulder only gave a slight twinge of protest at the sudden movement.

"Where do you think you're going?" Voldemort still hadn't looked up, but Harry could hear a hint of amusement in his voice.

"You're driving me _mad _over here," Harry said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to sit, "and since you're so very preoccupied, I thought that I might come to you."

Voldemort set the quill down slowly, deliberately. The air in the room seemed to get ten times thicker with that small, insignificant movement. "Do you take me for a fool, Harry?"

Harry's mouth was suddenly very dry. "Pardon?"

"I know every hitch of your breath; I know every inflection of your voice; I know precisely where and how to touch your body to elicit the exact pitch that I desire." Harry's heart was pounding its way up his esophagus. "You are my instrument, Harry Potter, and I know you as well as a concert musician knows his violin. Do you truly think that can fool me by writhing around on a bed and affecting some half-hearted moans?"

Harry licked his lips and pushed himself closer to the edge of the bed. Arousal, dark and genuine, coiled low in his belly. "So let me come over there and you can show me the real thing."

Voldemort pushed his chair away from the desk with a _scrape_. "That's hardly necessary," Voldemort said, rising to his feet, and Harry knew then that he had lost. "In fact, you'll probably find that you'd rather remain on your back for this."

Harry hadn't minded that particular defeat very much.

By the time that Harry had begun developing his next scheme, however, Voldemort had finally relented on his own. And so here Harry was, on a bright sunny morning, sitting at the foot of the bed with the Dark Lord's full permission. Voldemort was standing by the door. Snape stood glowering in the corner with a very sour expression on his face.

"I have a gift to mark this very special occasion," Voldemort announced. Harry smiled, and Snape looked even more like he had swallowed a lemon than usual.

"You'll quit hunting Muggle-borns, then?" Harry said brightly.

"Oh, yes, I suppose you didn't get my owl - I'm actually leaving you for a sweet Muggle female," Voldemort said dryly.

"Ha very ha," Harry said. Snape looked like he wanted to vomit up the lemon that he had swallowed. "A conversation for another day, then. Well, there isn't really anything else that I want, so I'm afraid any other gift will fall rather flat."

Voldemort ignored him. "We happen to have a very talented wandmaker here in the manor, but after extensive experimentation, he's come to the conclusion that your wand is beyond repair."

This statement hit Harry like a punch in the stomach. The image of his wand, snapped in two by that brute of a Squib, came rushing back into his mind like a bucket of icy water over his head. He had had that wand since he was eleven years old, it had been so faithful to him; and now it was gone, broken.

"Oh," said Harry. His voice sounded very small.

"However," Voldemort continued, "I spoke with him at length, and he assured me that there is another wand that should work just as well for you. It happens to have a feather from the same phoenix as your former wand, if you weren't aware, and it just so happens that its owner has recently come into possession of a new wand as well."

Harry's eyes widened. But ... no, that couldn't be right. Why would Voldemort give up his wand?

To his utter disbelief, however, Voldemort reached into his robes and procured the twin wand to Harry's broken one. Yew, a lighter color than Harry's holly, but otherwise it looked very similar.

Voldemort was examining Harry's expression closely as he stepped forward and offered the wand to him, holding it between two of his fingers. Harry stared at it with confusion, afraid to reach out and take it. Perhaps this was some kind of trick?

"But what about you?" said Harry reluctantly. "What wand will you use?"

A look passed over the Dark Lord's eyes, then, dangerous and pleased all at once. It was frightening

"I am the master of a new wand now, Harry," Voldemort said, "the most powerful wand on the earth. I have no need for this wand any longer."

Well, that didn't sound promising. Swallowing, Harry looked back at the yew wand, trying to feel cross that Voldemort was only giving it to him because he no longer needed it, failing. This was the brother of his own wand - which was broken, he reminded himself, irreparable. He might never have found another wand that complemented him so harmoniously.

"This wand has served me well, Harry," said Voldemort when Harry did not make a move to take it. "It is not easy for me to part with it. But I believe that it will be more useful in your hand than growing dusty on a shelf."

He had a point. And it wasn't as though Harry could pretend he wasn't excited about it.

Reaching forward, Harry's fingers closed around the wand's wooden handle - the wand that had pointed at his forehead sixteen years ago, that had murdered his parents, and Malfoy, and Cedric, and so many others. It felt like home, but darker - familiar and different at the same time. Harry imagined that this is what their own respective magical energies would feel like, if one could feel them: the same and yet so opposite.

"Thank you," said Harry softly. He curled his fingers tighter around the handle. Happy red sparks shot out from the tip.

"Harry," said the Dark Lord. Harry looked up, caught Voldemort's eye. "There's still more."

There was an edge to Voldemort's voice that Harry didn't like. Harry swallowed and placed his hand on his thigh. This new wand was a little longer than his old one had been; sitting on his thigh, it reached all the way past his knee.

"I've been saving this for you for quite some time, Harry."

Snape shifted uncomfortably, and Harry swallowed again. If this portion of the morning's events made Snape of all people feel uncomfortable, then it couldn't be good.

"What is it?" Harry asked warily.

"You'll have to come downstairs," Voldemort said, and extended his hand. "Are you ready?"

There seemed to be far more meaning weighing down those words than there should have been. Harry looked at his new wand and saw the faces of the dead etched into the wood, was reminded all at once of the weight of his burden. Suddenly, Harry felt as though he never wanted to leave this bed again, content to listen to Voldemort read him books and watch Voldemort write his letters. Suddenly, Harry did not feel very ready at all.

"Yes," Harry lied, and took Voldemort's hand.

Harry stood up on shaky legs. Snape gave him another uncomfortable, tight-lipped look, and Harry very nearly leapt back into the bed, where it was warm and safe and peaceful. Instead, he released Voldemort's hand and looked away, toward the door.

Holding a murderer's wand, the Dark Lord's apprentice led the way into the hall with trembling feet. No; no, he did not feel ready at all.


	30. V:4

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort, sexual content, angst

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

A/N: -peeks out from her cave of school, work, and writer's block- Helloooo? You guys still out there? I'm so very sorry for the wait for this. Life has been nuts, and this chapter gave me a really hard time. On the bright side, I've been working on several new projects in the meanwhile, including a short HPTR that's posted on my profile and a new HPLV that I'm co-writing with the lovely **What-Ansketil-Did-Next**. She is an amaaaazing author, beyond words incredible; go check out her stuff if you get the chance.

Also - 1,000+ reviews? What? How did this even happen? Thank you guys so, so much for your support. I wouldn't have gotten this far without you; your comments and feedback inspire me to keep writing, and I truly appreciate every single one of you.

Just to recap where we left off - since it was so very long ago - Harry is playing spy for the Order as the Dark Lord's apprentice (or is he? dun dun dunnnn). He's just come out of a coma after his broom was bewitched by a mysterious enemy (or was it? oh my!). Voldemort has promised Harry a gift now that he's recovered, and we're about to discover what he's got in store for our hero.

Lastly, a huge thank you to **estalita11** for late night Skype sessions tearing out hair with me over this chapter and being an all-around wonderful friend and beta. I hope you guys enjoy!

* * *

><p>4.<p>

They were brought up from the cellar, hands tied behind their backs and their eyes cast downward. Their hair was matted and bloody, their robes in filthy tatters. They looked, as a whole, like nothing Harry had remembered.

Harry felt strangely void of emotion as he observed his would-be killers. They clearly had not been well cared for during their imprisonment: their bright blonde hair was dirtied to a dull, ratty brown, their faces smeared with grime and blood. But it was the emptiness in their eyes that made Harry uneasy, the eerie vacant expressions slackening their faces that made him feel like something was not quite right about the minds lurking beneath.

Snape hovered by the cellar door, having led the twins up the stairs in their shackles. Malfoy walked stiffly over to Snape, said something softly into his ear; Harry noticed with a bit of surprise that the aristocrat was limping. Snape nodded, and then both Snape and Malfoy glanced surreptitiously down the hall. Harry followed their gaze to where another handful of Death Eaters was gathered, watching silently and uncomfortably by the entrance. Harry searched for the face they were discussing - any face that he recognized at all, for that matter - but before he could finish his examination, there was a hand lightly touching his shoulder.

"Harry." There was an unspoken question in Voldemort's eyes. "These are the men who assaulted you."

Harry swallowed and looked back at the brothers with their empty eyes and their filthy hair. Before he could respond, however, the brother that Harry recognized as the Squib - his hair was still long, although his glasses were long gone from his face - turned his eyes to narrow without focus in Harry's direction.

"I regret nothing," he snarled, his lips curling, his brow furrowing, but his eyes were still so empty, empty. "I would do it again, a hundred times. He is not worthy!"

"A trial," cried the second twin hoarsely, life coming back into his eyes with a burst of wild frenzy. "A trial, a trial - "

His voice cut off with a guttural cry, and then he was thrown backward, taking his twin with him. They collided with the wall and landed in a tangle on the floor, limbs sticking out at awkward angles, hands still shackled behind their backs. Voldemort was snarling, seething. "Lord Voldemort does not hear _trials_," he hissed. "My wand - my wrath - is the only trial for_ filth_."

"A trial for _Potter_," amended Melvin the Squib, turning his eyes, _empty, empty _behind the fire blazing at the surface. "We are not the only ones - we will not be the last - "

A flash of red light from Voldemort's - Dumbledore's - wand, and then the man was writhing on the floor, screaming and thrashing convulsively. Harry felt somehow detached, like he was watching this all from someone else's eyes. These horrors could not belong to his life.

"Perhaps the fates have been kind to you today, however," Voldemort said softly when the screams had tapered off, his voice a silk blanket over the harsh breaths and whimpers. "Potter will be your trial."

Harry's stomach turned over on itself. The eyes of everyone in the room, having been temporarily distracted by the procession of the prisoners, were once more back on the gangly, too-thin boy that stood so out of place beside the tall and graceful Dark Lord. And Harry could only freeze, gaze seeking out Voldemort's desperately, heart pounding. _This _was his surprise? This was the great gift that Voldemort had been saving him?

But Voldemort did not seem to sense his terror. His eyes were alight with something wild - a mad smile, like a wonderful, intimate secret was passing through their shared gaze.

"Potter is lying to you!" cried the brother Lambert, and Harry's heart leapt into his throat. The smile vanished from Voldemort's eyes. "Trial, trial - give him a trial - "

"You will beg for his forgiveness!" Lord Voldemort rounded on the two men on the floor. Any other man would have been cowering under the paralyzing rage in his eyes, but these men were empty, vacant shells. They did not even flinch. Their tranquility seemed to send the Dark Lord into an even greater fury; a flash of his new wand, and they jerked to their feet like marionettes, spines straightening with crunching noises and renewed cries of pain. "You are at Potter's mercy, you fools - beg him for your lives."

"I - " Harry stammered, but Melvin the Squib drew back his lips - Harry saw that he had lost some teeth since their encounter in the forest - and spat saliva thick with blood in Harry's direction. Heavy silence fell over the hall; a few people gasped, and Harry thought he might have even heard someone hide a snigger.

"_Punish him, Harry._" The command was whispered inside his mind; for a moment, Harry almost thought that the idea was his own. "_Punish them for their insolence. They almost killed you; wouldn't you like to see them suffer?"_

Harry's mouth hung open in horror. Punish them? Harry was no Dark Lord - he had no intention of hurling Unforgivables at anyone, even those who had meant him harm.

"_But you are the Dark Lord's apprentice, Harry." _The hiss of Voldemort's voice was cool, refreshing water against the boiling maelstrom of his thoughts. "_They must learn to respect you. Punish them."_

"He is not worthy, my lord!" cried the other twin, Lambert. He had risen to his knees, apparently having recovered from the Cruciatus; blood trickled from the corner of his lips. "He has bewitched you - he will betray you, and there are so many others, more faithful, more competent, more willing to -"

"Potter is worth one _thousand _of you," Voldemort snarled. Harry would have been flattered if he hadn't felt sick to his stomach.

"His mother is a Mudblood!" countered the Squib furiously, his empty eyes shining with a muffled terror that did not match up with his words. "A worthless Mudblood - worse than a Squib, you've said so yourself, my lord - and his blood traitor father was no better! He should have died out there - he does not deserve to live! He does not deserve - "

But Melvin was cut off abruptly - and this time, Voldemort was not responsible for the interruption. Harry was nearly trembling in his trainers with barely suppressed rage, the unfamiliar wand sending surges of dark temptation up his fingers. They had no right - _no right_ - to talk about his parents, who had died so bravely to save Harry's life, who were worth more in their death than the spitting, cowardly Gibbon twins could ever hope to be, begging and simpering at Lord Voldemort's feet.

The Squib's face was slowly turning an unhealthy shade of puce, and Harry was dimly aware that _he _was the one doing this - like that time with Aunt Marge, when he had blown her up to the size of a hot air balloon in Aunt Petunia's kitchen. But the panic he had experienced during that particular mishap was conspicuously absent. He was, in fact, disturbed to find how _good_ it felt, to take out his anger - from his pain, his parents' deaths, his frustration at the entire situation - on this loathsome, ignorant _pig_.

"You don't talk about my parents that way," said Harry. His voice was very soft.

"_That's it, Harry," _whispered Voldemort in Parseltongue. He moved gracefully to stand next to Harry, leaning over his shoulder, his mouth very close to the boy's ear; the secret, intimate hisses of their shared language fanning against the side of his cheek. _"It feels good, doesn't it? I know that you want to. I can see it here, in your mind. One little incantation, and they will suffer; one spell, and all of your pain will be theirs instead."_

Melvin's eyes were growing very large with something other than emptiness - realization, perhaps, or even fear - but Harry did not see it. He could not see much of anything through his anger, red and raging, an aggregation of both his own fury and the Dark Lord's as well, building up to a great roaring in his eye was on him - and the minds behind them jeered at him, taunted him, did not think him strong enough to inflict punishment on his inferiors.

"_But you are not weak, Harry,"_ Voldemort hissed, his mind slipping, pressing against Harry's, and it was so hard to think, to see, through the rage, through the seductive Parseltongue in his thoughts. Which thoughts were his own? Which belonged to Voldemort instead? He no longer could tell. _"Show them. Prove it."_

"He won't," said Lambert, his face breaking out into a mad grin. "He won't defend himself - he will lie down and die, just like his worthless, weak Gryffindor parents."

And something snapped inside of Harry; the fury that he had been holding in was unleashed in a great tornado of red-hot, painful _rage_. Harry's wand arm lifted of its own volition, and the word fell from his lips too easily, like he spat out this poisonous curse every day. And the wand between his fingers - that had tortured so many, including Harry himself, that had killed and warped and carried out so many unspeakable horrors - obeyed.

The hall echoed with the man's screams, high-pitched and blood-curdling, his body contorting across the floor. Blood from earlier wounds smeared across the stone, a sick snow angel of red on the ground. Harry felt his rage leave him in a great rush, channeled through his wand, enveloping the writhing man in agony. It was a few moments before he realized what he was doing, and then a few more before he realized he was _smiling_ - and his anger drained from him in one fell swoop that left him gaping in horror, lifting the curse in an instant.

Silence fell over the room. Harry's eyes flew in a panic to the summoned audience - and the gazes that he met darted away fearfully, full of shock and terror and knowledge of what was to come, of what Harry was expected to do to finish this. The only person who did not look away was Snape; his black, beady eyes were hard and unflinching, and somehow brimming with an understanding that Harry had never seen there before.

_I can't_, Harry thought desperately, suddenly overwhelmed by self-loathing and disgust. He ached for the comfort of his bed upstairs. A few seconds of sprinting and he was sure he could be hidden safely beneath the covers, never to face the reality of what he had just done. His throat very tight, Harry whirled around to look Voldemort in the eye, pleading with him silently. The whimpers and sobs of the crippled Squib were the only sound in the room, amplified by the hall's high ceiling. _I can't, I can't, don't make me, please - I -_

Voldemort's expression hardened and then softened again. He turned away from Harry; there was a flash of green light, and then another; and it was over. The Gibbon brothers lay dead on the stone floor, their eyes somehow just as eerily empty as they had been before Voldemort had stolen the life from their identical blue gazes.

* * *

><p>Harry sat alone. The yew wand was cast onto the duvet beside him; he glared at it intensely as he tried not to sick up all over the bedroom floor. <em>I hate this wand<em>, he thought vehemently. _I hate the Order. I hate the Death Eaters. I hate my life._

Snape appeared in the doorway, looking like he was uncertain how his feet had come to carry him there. Their gazes met, and Harry saw that flicker of understanding there once more. He resisted the urge to rub his eyes; he must have been imagining it. Snape was a murderer, a coward - Snape killed Albus Dumbledore, a man who had trusted him with every ounce of his being! Snape could never possibly understand.

"Mr. Potter," Snape began, but Harry had already flown to his feet, anger rising in his throat.

"Shut up!" he said furiously. "Come to be an utter git about it all now, have you? Well, I don't think I could possibly be feeling any worse, so you're out of luck today_, Professor._"

Something shuttered in Snape's dark eyes, and his thin lips curled in a sneer. "I simply wished to congratulate you on your admirable performance this morning," he drawled, and Harry could not tell if he was mocking him or not.

"SHUT UP!" Harry yelled, thinking it was very lucky that the yew wand was on the bed and not in his hand. "I hate you, too!" he added for good measure when his former professor had disappeared from the doorway. The boy lowered himself back to the mattress, nearly shaking in his anger. He mentally moved _Severus Snape _up between _Death Eaters_ and _life _on his growing list of things that he loathed.

His scar began to tingle, and there was Voldemort, approaching the bedroom from the corridor. Harry made a hasty attempt to compose himself, repeating Mr. Weasley's words over and over in his head as he tried desperately to look the part of a diligent little Dark Lord-in-training; but he was very aware that, when Voldemort entered the room, Harry looked hardly any better than a trembling, frightened little boy, fingers clenched into fists on his lap and his gaze fixed steadily on the floor.

The Dark Lord closed the door behind him. Harry tried very hard not to get angry, reminding himself that there was plenty else in the world to hate - and hating Lord Voldemort, his lover and his soul, the only constant in his life, would not get him anywhere.

Voldemort walked over to the bed. Harry did not look up.

"I was very proud of you today, Harry," the Dark Lord murmured, fingers carding through Harry's hair.

"Thanks," Harry said, a little hoarsely. He allowed himself to be comforted, leaning his head against Voldemort's hip; his eyelids fluttered shut with relief.

"I thought it might please you, to have your way with your assailants," Voldemort said softly. "The tale of your failed attempt at the Cruciatius in the Ministry is also very fresh in our servants' ears; it was good for them to see that you are more than capable of living up to expectations, my little Horcrux."

Harry's stomach lurched violently. "Yeah." The word came out muffled, his face half-pressed against Voldemort's side as it was.

"But I see now," Voldemort said, seating himself beside Harry on the bed, "that it may have been … insensitive of me. We are so similar, you and I, that it is sometimes difficult for me to remember that we are very different in many ways as well."

Harry could not meet his eye. "It was a great gift," he said, his voice hollow, and his gaze found the wand he so loathed on the bedclothes to his right. "And the wand. I love it."

Voldemort sighed. "You are a terrible liar, Harry. We'll need to work on that."

_I won't get angry. I won't. _"Yeah."

"I thought I might make it up to you."

Long, cool fingers took Harry's hand, and something warm and heavy was pressed into his palm. Harry looked up, his eyes growing round with surprise as they took in the emerald jewels, the smooth, gold metal; he was holding Slytherin's locket. Voldemort watched him very carefully. His fingers had not yet released Harry's hand.

"The keeper of my soul, through both fate and choice," the Dark Lord said softly, squeezing Harry's fingers around the talisman. "You must care for it as you would your own life, Harry. There is nothing in the world that is worth more to me - except, perhaps, for you."

Harry did not know what to say. His mouth was agape with shock. A frisson of delight coursed through him at the prospect of seeing Tom again, a reminder of why he had set out on this mad mission in the first place. "Of course" he said; his fingers closed around the locket, and he pulled it close to his chest, accepting it. "But … why -?"

"Consider it another gift - one more to your tastes, I should hope. I remember how much you've enjoyed the locket's company in the past." Voldemort touched Harry's cheek affectionately, fingers brushing briefly against his scar, before withdrawing again. "I imagine that you are very tired. Severus tells me that such an endeavor was probably … ill-advised for a boy recently emerging from two weeks' worth of bed rest."

Something clenched in Harry's chest. Snape had been looking out for him? No - Voldemort was probably twisting his words, softening them for Harry's sake. It was much more likely that Snape had suggested Harry would prefer to loll about in bed for the rest of his life like the lazy little snot that he was.

_Well, I'll show him_, Harry thought fiercely, fingers tightening around the locket. _I'll show them all._

"I'm not tired," Harry muttered, but he did not have nearly the same enthusiasm for leaving his bed that he had harbored for the past week.

"Of course not," Voldemort said, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "Regardless, I take it that you are not particularly keen to attend the meeting this afternoon."

Any relief that Harry had garnered from the promise of the locket's companionship evaporated with the reminder of the role he would be expected to play. Now that he was healthy again, he would be required to attend meetings regularly and consorting with a variety of unpleasant people on a daily basis - including Bellatrix Lestrange, who had killed his godfather two years ago. Anger pricked once more at Harry's heart, but the boy clamped down on it furiously - _I won't get angry, I won't._

"Thanks," he said softly and without much enthusiasm. He leaned forward and placed a brief kiss on the corner of Voldemort's mouth to make up for it. "I'll just be up here, then." _With the locket_. Harry tried not to get too excited about this - he was supposed to be a tired, traumatized boy after all - but a part of him knew this was the reason that Voldemort had entrusted him with the Horcrux in the first place. Comfort that the Dark Lord could not give to him - or so Voldemort thought.

"You'll join me for dinner this evening," Voldemort said, standing. He trailed his fingers over Harry's cheek again before straightening to full Dark Lord height, scarlet eyes impassive in the pale face. "Rest well today, Harry. For tomorrow, we shall announce to Britain where your new allegiance lies."

* * *

><p>Tom's room was just as Harry remembered it - sparse furnishing, tiny, an impersonal, temporary home while he worked at Borgin and Burkes. Tom was still sitting at the desk, bent over a large book. It was a familiar posture for Harry, who had watched Voldemort pour over legislation and correspondence in the same way for the better part of two weeks now. There were subtle differences, however - while Voldemort held himself stiffly upright, his body always completely under his control, Tom shoulders were hunched a little, reflecting his eagerness for the material.<p>

"I was wondering when I'd be seeing you again, Harry Potter."

The dark head turned, and Harry was captured by the intensity in those gray eyes. It was strange, interacting with a memory, with a boy who only existed inside of a locket.

"We never got to finish our conversation," said Harry, refusing to be cowed.

"Yes," said Tom, and his gaze darkened. He pushed his chair away from the desk with a scrape, having apparently lost interest in the book he had been perusing. "An unfortunate interruption."

Something in the memory's tone made Harry shiver. He remembered where they had left off - full, warm lips, softer and more human than Voldemort's but somehow with the same intimate knowledge of how to kiss Harry till his toes curled.

"I'm scared that you were wrong," said Harry softly as the young man with the dark curls approached him. "I'm scared that things have changed too much, that you're - _he's_ - too far gone. I don't think there's any hope."

Tom stopped directly in front of him, his eyes soft and full of sadness. He brushed a long, human hand against Harry's cheek in a tender caress. "We make our own kind of hope, you and I," the young man murmured, his fingers radiating warmth against Harry's cheekbone, so deceptively solid and_real_. "There is always hope for us."

"But he wants me to perform Unforgivables," Harry whispered brokenly. He leaned into the fingers holding his face; they seemed to draw the tension from his body with their all-consuming heat. "And I can't do it, Tom. I'm not a Dark Lord. I'm not a spy. I'm not even a savior. I'm just Harry."

"You are mine," Tom said softly, folding Harry in his arms. "You are the keeper of my soul. That's all that you need to be."

Tom was taller than he was, his shoulders broad and his arms fleshed out, so unlike the emaciated limbs of Voldemort's current body. Harry sunk into his embrace, allowing himself to be caressed and comforted by this man that was so very much Lord Voldemort and yet so different.

"Stay with me a while, Harry," Tom whispered into his hair, and it occurred to Harry for the first time that perhaps the young man enjoyed Harry's company as much as Harry enjoyed his. "It will all work out in the end. Fate has marked us as equals; you've said so yourself."

_Well, fate's also destined for us to kill each other_, Harry thought bitterly, but he ignored this thought to nestle his head into the crook of Tom's shoulder. A while in the locket, and then he could face reality again. Just for a little while.

* * *

><p>Voldemort awoke him very early the next morning. He dressed Harry all in black, and then left him alone with Lucius Malfoy, who spent at least a quarter of an hour fussing over every stray thread and crooked seam in Harry's ensemble.<p>

"I can dress myself," said Harry irritably when Malfoy first began to straighten out his sleeves. This only earned him a nasty glare.

"Perhaps your school acquaintances were familiar enough with poor social etiquette to overlook Muggle hand-me-downs, but such lack of propriety will not go unremarked among more_ respectable _wizarding families," Malfoy sneered. "And appearance, Potter, is everything."

Harry felt like punching him, but instead he only seethed silently as Malfoy lazily waved his wand and _tut-tutted _several times at the boy's hair.

When Malfoy ushered him in front of the mirror, however, Harry's nearly fell over with shock. He almost didn't recognize the refined, attractive young man staring back at him. Every strand of hair was perfectly combed; dark, elegant robes hugged his normally too-skinny physique in all the right ways; his face was freshly scrubbed, and he looked healthier than he had in weeks.

"I wish there were something to be done about those ridiculous glasses, but it seems that the Dark Lord has grown rather fond of them."

Harry was too busy gaping at his reflection to remember to glower at this remark. In fact he nearly thanked the man, only catching himself just in time, a pit clenching in his stomach. Malfoy was _one of them_. Harry could not afford developing any more attachments to his enemies.

"You'll have to do better than that for the crowds today, Potter," Malfoy said when Harry didn't say anything, but his voice was gentle. "The Dark Lord is expecting a show."

Voldemort was waiting outside the bedroom. He gave Harry's attire an approving nod and extended his arm. Harry went to grab it, but Voldemort jerked it just out of reach, catching Harry's gaze and holding it.

"You will do exactly as I say." Voldemort's voice was soft and dangerous. It made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand up. "You are not to defy me or disobey me before my servants. This is no longer a game, Harry; the time has come to prove your dedication to our cause."

"Right," said Harry, steadfastly ignoring the nervous fluttering in his stomach. He closed his eyes and laid his hand on Voldemort's forearm. "Let's just get this over with."

The sinister quiet of Malfoy Manor suddenly exploded with shouting and cheers, and when Harry opened his eyes again, he was standing in the gargantuan entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic. Harry's stomach twisted as he recalled the last time he has seen the sprawling marble of this room - sprinting for his life but a few short months ago, heart nearly stopping in his chest when he'd barreled straight into Lord Voldemort himself in that Muggle bathroom. How drastically things had changed in such a short space of time. That had been the first day Voldemort had ever touched him.

And the _people. _There were so many of them - every employee of the Ministry of Magic must have been summoned for the occasion. The hall was filled with hundreds of witches and wizards, and they roared and cheered when the Dark Lord and his comparably tiny, bespectacled companion appeared suddenly at the mouth of the hall. A path was cleared, and Voldemort strode forward; Harry found himself jostled after him, Lucius Malfoy's hand a gentle guide on his shoulder.

It was overwhelming. After spending months and months in hiding, and then even more time hidden away with only the Dark Lord and his two best friends for company, the sight of so many people filled him with the desperate desire to _flee, flee, flee_. He felt claustrophobic - frightened, even. But he only forced himself to walk forward stiffly, his eyes glued to his shoes, feeling very small behind the domineering pace of Lord Voldemort.

"Hail the Dark Lord!" followed them from all sides as they went, in a hundred different voices. "All hail the Dark Lord!"

Malfoy's hand clamped down suddenly on Harry's shoulder. "_Smile_, Potter," he hissed in Harry's ear. "You're an apprentice, not a prisoner."

And so Harry forced himself to look up as well. No one was really paying him much heed; Voldemort drew every eye like a magnet, every inch of him the tall, poised leader that he was. But not everyone was screaming and cheering wildly. As Harry's eyes raked over the crowds, he saw the faces of the helpless, the hateful. They were dispersed every so often in pairs or groups of threes; they were the ones with vacant, ashen faces that had seen cruel and violent loss at the hand of Lord Voldemort. They did not even spare the Dark Lord a glance. They only had eyes for Harry Potter; their haunting, empty gazes followed his procession from one end of the hall to the other, filled with unending disappointment as their savior trailed behind the Dark Lord like a puppy.

Harry bit down violently on his tongue in an effort to stop himself from - from - from what? What was there that he could possibly do? Scream? Lash out? Reassure them that _it was okay_, that Harry was still on their side, that he was going to work all of this out so that everyone could be happy in the end? Even if such promises wouldn't ruin everything he had worked for, Harry knew he still would not be able to bring himself to make them.

He didn't even know whose side he was on anymore.

They had arrived at a stage, erected before the great statue of _Magic is Might_. Harry's stomach turned again, and he refused to let his eyes linger on it for long; sicking up all over the stage would not leave a good impression on the people of wizarding Britain concerning his capabilities as a leader. And that's what he was here for today, Harry reminded himself as Voldemort gracefully took his place at the center of the stage. He was here to lie, to convince these hundreds of wizards and witches staring up at them that he had abandoned everything that he had ever stood for.

Harry was exceedingly grateful when Malfoy ushered him not to stand at Voldemort's side, but to a row of chairs along the back of the stage, out of the spotlight. Voldemort, meanwhile, raised one long, slender hand in the air, and the hall immediately fell silent.

"Welcome, friends." His voice was soft and sibilant, but it was amplified magically to echo throughout the hall. "It pleases me greatly that you could find the time to join us this morning."

Harry thought he might have heard Malfoy snort quietly at this, but decided quickly that he must have imagined it.

"I've summoned you here," Voldemort continued, strolling across the stage lazily, "for a few very important announcements." Every face was upturned, every eye fixed on the Dark Lord. "First, I am thrilled to inform you that legislation prohibiting wizarding association with Muggles has officially passed in the Wizengamot. Such abhorrent behavior will be punishable by nothing less than death. Another step toward ensuring the sanctity of our sacred magical blood!"

The hall erupted once again in cheers. Harry thought very calmly about their bed, and the way that Voldemort had kissed each of his knuckles the night before. _My strong boy_, Voldemort had whispered. _My lovely, brave little lion. _It was the only thing that kept him currently from screaming out in frustration; his fingers itched to tear out his hair.

"Secondly," Voldemort continued, and the crowds were silenced once more, "as you may have already noticed, we have quite the unexpected guest this morning."

The silence took on a sudden uneasiness, like it was being stretched tight across the air. Harry tried not to fidget as members of the crowd shifted to get a better look at him, pointing and whispering as loudly as they dared at the boy who sat at the back of the stage.

"Harry Potter has at last realized the futility in opposing me." Voldemort did not turn around. His voice had dropped to hardly above a whisper - creamy, intimate velvet, and yet it reached every ear in the hall. "He recognizes the foolishness of those who dare resist the inevitable. He has repented the error of his ways. And I profess myself delighted to allow him to join our noble cause."

Malfoy nudged him gently, and Harry rose mechanically to his feet. There was no doubt that he was now the subject of everyone's attention, but he felt somewhat numb to it all, like wading through the murky waters of dream-thoughts.

"Let it never be said that Lord Voldemort is not a kind and merciful lord. Magical blood is far too valuable to needlessly be spilt; I am willing to welcome even the worst of my enemies into my ranks should they be willing to truly devote themselves to me, body and soul."

Another nudge; Malfoy wanted him to step forward. And step forward Harry did, his eyes unseeing as they gazed out over the sea of faces, one foot in front of the other until he was standing right beside Voldemort. The Dark Lord placed a skeletal hand on Harry's shoulder; never before had it felt so uncomfortable and inappropriate there.

Silence descended upon the hall once more, and Harry realized that he was expected to say something.

"All hail the Dark Lord." His voice was quiet and hoarse, but it rang loud and clear over the silence of the hall.

Voldemort's fingers squeezed Harry's shoulder as the hall broke out once more in applause. He gazed down at Harry, his eyes glittering with glee in the otherwise pale, indifferent mask of his face. Harry forced himself to smile, a little too weakly.

"And now," Voldemort said over the roar of the crowd, his voice once more soft and dangerous, "a demonstration of the fate of those who are foolish enough to challenge Lord Voldemort's authority."

Harry's insides felt like they'd been doused in ice water. He resisted the urge to glance desperately about the stage, looking for the victim in question. No one had warned him about this.

"A group of students thought it prudent to interrupt me on a very important mission," said Voldemort. "Their actions resulted not only in the collapse of the entire operation, but nearly brought about the loss of something invaluable to me." The fingers on his shoulder squeezed once more and then dropped away. "We were, unfortunately, only able to identify and apprehend one of the traitors, but I mean to make it clear now what shall happen to any other fools who are taken with such flights of reckless heroism."

There was a loud shout, a flash of light, and then the space before the stage cleared as a pair of Death Eaters hauled a limp body from behind the statue to the clearing on the floor in front of the stage. Harry suddenly wished that Voldemort's fingers were still grasping his shoulder, because he felt as though he might collapse. It was a Ravenclaw seventh year, Michael Corner - a member of Dumbledore's Army and Ginny's ex-boyfriend. His face was barely recognizable through the bruises.

The Death Eaters shoved him onto his knees, and he gave a pained cry.

Voldemort took his time descending the stairs at the front of the stage. The silence seemed eternal, every breath held in every pair of lungs in the hall. The Dark Lord bent down in front of the shuddering boy on the ground, lifting his chin with one finger.

"A pureblood," Voldemort said softly, and shook his head. "What a pity."

Harry knew what would come next, but he couldn't bring himself to watch. His eyes instead sought out a familiar face in the crowd - any at all - and finally alighted on Professor McGonagall, standing along the wall with a group of other Hogwarts professors. She was not watching the scene taking place before the stage; her eyes were fixed instead on Harry. He saw with a terrible jolt that she was one of the hopeless. It was the same disappointment that tainted the expressions of her fellow professors - Slughorn, and Flitwick, and Sprout - different faces that all wore the same thought, plain and heartbreaking.

_I will have to do some terrible things_, Harry thought fiercely, looking at them with pleading eyes. _Don't you see?_

There was a brilliant flash of green light that briefly colored every face in the hall a sickening shade of emerald. But the expressions of his former teachers did not change. No; it was clear that they did not see at all.

"All hail the Dark Lord!" said the crowd as one.

"All hail," Harry repeated in a broken whisper, and he looked away.

* * *

><p>When the small flat materialized around him again, Harry did not wait for Tom to notice his arrival. He stumbled forward, jerking the young man by the shoulders away from the desk, kissing the surprise from his lips. Books and quills clattered to the floor, while Harry tangled his fingers in thick, soft hair, proof of Tom's humanity, proof that Voldemort had once had a soul.<p>

"What is this?" Tom gasped when Harry finally pulled away, breathing heavily.

"I need this." Harry yanked the young man up by the front of his shirt, out of his seat and steering him toward the twin bed in the corner. "I need you, like this, right now."

"I'm hardly objecting," Tom murmured against his mouth, hands taking hold of Harry's hips to halt their journey to the bed. "But I would like to know what's brought this on."

"I need to remember," said Harry; his hands had wound themselves into the luscious curls again. "I need to forget. Please. Just for a little while."

Tom pushed him gently against the wall, stopping just short of pressing flush against Harry's body. The silver eyes darted from Harry's mouth to his scar and back again. A pink, human tongue darted out to lick full, human lips, betraying his desire. "But I've made love to you," Tom whispered. His hands smoothed down Harry's sides, lingered at his hips again; gray eyes darkened with lust. "I make love to you every night. I've seen it - your Dark Lord showed me only yesterday. Why not go to him?"

"I need to remember," Harry said again, his voice soft and very small. "I need to see that - that you are human. That he's still human somewhere inside of all that hatred. I need to see, or I'll go insane."

"But I am a jealous creature, Harry," the young man murmured, fingers coming up to stroke the side of Harry's jaw. "I cannot imagine that my present self is any less possessive. Do you really think this a wise idea?"

"I don't care," Harry said, and pulled Tom closer to him, pressing their bodies together shamelessly. "I need this. We don't have much time - please, I'll - I'll go insane."

Tom's eyelashes fluttered briefly; a battle raged behind the depths of those beautiful silver eyes. "You ask me to succumb to madness to save your own sanity," he said, his forehead falling against Harry's. There was a pause as the taller man closed his eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly. "Is this what it is to be bound to another, such sacrifice?" he asked without opening his eyes, his voice a little hoarse. It was clear that he spoke more to himself than to Harry. "Or is it merely weakness?"

"No," Harry said simply. "It means that you care." And the distance between their mouths closed, and Harry kissed him slowly, deeply, desperately drinking in the memory's human face and lips with his fingers and tongue.

The kisses stole away the tension and anxiety that Harry had been battling all day, growing more frantic with each passing second. Tom Riddle kissed the same way that Voldemort did - possessively, tenderly, worshiping every crevice of Harry's mouth. And yet they were different lips, different fingers, that rendered him helpless and weak-kneed against the memory of the wall. Soft hair brushed against Harry's cheek as Tom dragged his lips up Harry's throat; healthy, human teeth nibbled at the pulse point throbbing in his neck. It was disconcerting and thrilling and saddening all at once, the memory that knew him as intimately as a lover, that represented everything that Harry desired in Lord Voldemort, that only existed here inside of a locket.

The silver eyes were half-lidded and greedy, soaking in Harry's face; they did not close as Tom kissed him, _slowly, slowly, _cataloguing every one of Harry's responses. The young man rolled his hips lazily against Harry's pelvis, and shudders wracked Harry's body, drawing a low noise from the back of his throat. Hands pressed into his abdomen, hiking up his shirt and turning the skin of his stomach to jelly. Harry gave in then, head tossing to the side, eyes falling shut, letting himself be carried away by the hot, slow kisses of Tom Riddle's lips and fingertips.

"_It's alright,_" Riddle whispered to him Parseltongue, breath hot and moist against Harry's ear. _"You're safe here."_ Harry could only shiver in response. Were they truly the same person, Voldemort and Tom Riddle? Had Harry grossly miscalculated? Was Voldemort's humanity lost forever to his Horcruxes, trapped inside lockets and scars?

_Are you still there, Tom?_

The lips on Harry's throat stopped moving very suddenly, fingers tightening around Harry's waist. The air stilled with Tom's movements, the heat between their bodies freezing in the air.

"By all means, don't let me interrupt."

Harry thought his heart might have stopped in his chest. His eyes flew open, and there was Lord Voldemort, serpentine and majestic and out of place in this peaceful memory, leaning against the wall a few feet away. Harry couldn't breathe; he looked desperately to Tom, but the young man's gaze was fixed on his future form, his expression unreadable.

"I must say, Harry, that this was not the sort of comfort I intended for you to find when I entrusted you with my Horcrux," Voldemort said softly. He did not look at Tom; his eyes were staring raptly at Harry, and Harry was struck suddenly with the picture he must make: sprawled across the wall, shirt halfway up his torso, cheeks flushed and hair mussed in all directions.

"He's hurt," Tom said. His voice was dangerous and angry, more human - it had not yet gained the high, cold quality characteristic of Lord Voldemort's speech. "I can see in his heart that you've hurt him. You consistently disregard his emotions in your ploy for power. You offer little comfort for the one that holds your soul."

Voldemort's eyes flashed, but he did not move away from the wall, nor did his gaze leave Harry's face. "Ah, yes, _emotion_," he said, and there was a distinct sneer to his words. He pushed himself away from the wall, walking slowly toward them, finally turning to look at the memory. Harry recognized the challenge in his eyes; he had seen it directed at himself too many times not to. "Tell me,_Tom Riddle_," and there was no doubt that he was mocking the memory now, serpentine eyes shining with dangerous mirth, "how would you comfort my sweet Horcrux? You truly believe you can offer him pleasure that Lord Voldemort cannot?"

"I would do more than you've done," Tom said, anger twisting his handsome features. "This boy is priceless - I would care for his comfort with my life."

"Harry Potter is not only precious to you, foolish child," Voldemort hissed. "I am older, stronger, wiser - I have become the most powerful sorcerer in the world. You are but a mere shadow of my might."

Tom's lips drew back in a vicious snarl. "And I can still give him more than you ever would. I can give him what he needs."

Harry winced, expecting Voldemort to lash out - but the Dark Lord only raised his hairless brow, his gaze settling darkly on Harry. Harry, who realized now that he had simply become a piece in a game, that the battle here did not truly involve him, but was between Voldemort and a fierce, vocal part of himself. A part of his soul.

"Harry, Harry," Voldemort chided. "My lovely Harry. This is what you desire? A pretty face with a Muggle's name? This is the comfort of which he speaks for Lord Voldemort's precious Horcrux?"

"There is more to comfort than this," Tom said viciously, fingers tightening against Harry's waist. "You are only good to him when it is _convenient _for you. If you truly cared about him, you wouldn't need to comfort him at all."

"You think that you know my Horcrux so well, Riddle?" asked Voldemort softly, his eyes blazing. "Then give me a show. Demonstrate. I'd be delighted to see how much more you can offer my Harry than the great Lord Voldemort himself."

Tom snarled, but he did not move; the battle was raging behind his eyes again, and Harry wished that he knew what was going on. He was badly frightened. Voldemort had an ulterior motive. There was no other reason that the Dark Lord had not already snatched him up and extracted him from the locket.

"I know that you need the comfort too, Riddle," said the Dark Lord, stepping even closer. "You've grown lonely after all of these years. I know what it's like, yes - I am very familiar with solitude. It's an aching, gnawing hole that grows and grows inside of you, consuming you until you can think of nothing but your isolation, your desire to feel something, _anything_ aside from the terrible burn of your loneliness." His eyes were very bright. Tom seemed unable to look away. "Harry Potter is a wellspring of feeling, Riddle," he whispered, touching one of Tom's curls with a delicate finger. "Do you wish to know what it's like to pleasure him? To see how much feeling there is inside of him? One can drown in it."

Riddle's gray eyes flicked to Harry's face, still flushed from their kissing.

"I know you want to_,_" Voldemort whispered. "He is beautiful when he comes."

Something broke in Tom's eyes, then, and Harry knew that Voldemort had won. Full, warm lips pressed to Harry's mouth with bruising force, claiming him, devouring him. The memory's fingers scraped down his throat, found their way back to his hips and then clawed against his quivering stomach. His jumper unraveled into thin air in this surreal space of Voldemort's memory, leaving his torso naked to Tom's fingers, scalding and needy against his bare skin. And Harry was helpless beneath him; it was all he could do to breathe, never mind respond to the sudden, overwhelming assault on his senses.

"You'll need to do better than that, Riddle," Voldemort hissed, his gaze very heavy on Harry's body. "He wants you to touch him now. Look at the way he writhes."

Harry inhaled very sharply through his nose, and then Tom's mouth was following his fingers, marking and mapping out all the bare skin on his chest. Harry's eyes fluttered open - when had he closed them? - and found Voldemort's, still fixed on Harry's face, impassive and observant. But they squeezed shut again when Tom's mouth closed around the hardened stub of his nipple, which was straining so tight it was almost painful to the touch.

"Ahh-" Harry said, arching his back as a hot, human tongue swirled around the areola. His fingers clutched needfully at the wall.

"Touch the other with your fingers," Voldemort ordered, his voice soft and sibilant. "Tease it, featherlight - he is extremely sensitive there."

Clever fingers traced the skin around his other nipple, and Harry, who had been holding his breath, exhaled in a moan. He tried to wrench away from the teasing fingers - it was _so intense, _it was nearly overwhelming - but he was pinned to the wall, Tom's firm chest pressed against his hips, holding him there. Trapped. The torture was incessant, merciless; it went on for minutes on end, and just when the hot, devious tongue pulled away, it only made its way to the other side of his chest, abusing the flesh there as well.

"Be careful," murmured Voldemort, and Tom's mouth paused in its ministrations. "You don't want to spoil him too soon."

Harry tried to drudge up offense at this statement - he had learned how to hold himself off pretty well, thank-you-very-much - but then Tom pulled away, his pale cheeks rosy with arousal. A long-fingered, warm hand came up to stroke his face, drawing Harry's gaze to pools of silver. _It's alright_, his eyes seemed to whisper to him again, reaching through Harry's irises and into his heart. _You're safe here_.

Voldemort's face drew back angrily in the corner of Harry's eye. "A show, Riddle. Surely you can do better than that."

Tom's eyes flashed, and then Harry had been whirled around to face the sheetrock. A wet, needy mouth worshiped the nape of his neck, his spine, palms smoothing up and down Harry's bare sides. Lips traced a hot, slow path down Harry's spine, and then his trousers had disappeared and Harry was naked against the wall, breathing heavily and trying very hard to remember that Voldemort _wanted _something, that he could not afford to let his guard down.

"Go slowly." Voldemort's voice was very soft and controlled; Harry only heard it like this very late at night, when the Dark Lord whispered to him as they made love, and never before directed toward anyone else. "If you touch him in all the right ways, he'll beg you for it. And he begs very prettily, Riddle."

There was a sharp exhale of warm breath against his lower back. Fingers ran back down his sides to smooth across his buttocks, which were suddenly twice as sensitive as they normally were. Harry dug his teeth into his lip, shifting against the wall so his erection wasn't jabbing into the wall so uncomfortably as Tom's fingers spread him gently from behind, exposing him.

"Do you see how he trembles, Riddle?" Voldemort whispered. "It is the mere knowledge of what is to come that does this to him. Simply knowing that you are looking at him right now has him breathless with desire. His imagination is one of your greatest weapons."

The combination of Voldemort's commentary and Tom's fingers and tongue was enough to make Harry's head spin. He pressed his forehead against the cool wall, trying to get his ragged breathing under control. But just as he started to make progress, a hot, wet tongue swiped unexpectedly down his crack, and Harry cried out, his whole body seizing up.

Fingers spread him more insistently, and then the tongue was swirling around his pucker, sending bursts of liquid electricity coursing up his spine. Harry's knees were very weak; he clung desperately to the wall, afraid that they might buckle, an incoherent stream of moans falling from his lips.

"Slowly, Riddle," Voldemort murmured. "Don't you want to hear him beg?"

Harry could have hit him, but his muscles refused to cooperate with his brain. The slick pad of a finger replaced the tongue, and then the tip was pressing slowly inside of him, teasing at the ring of muscle just to pull back out again. The tongue swirled, causing the muscle of his entrance to quiver, but Tom refused to go any further than the first knuckle, just barely submerging his finger in Harry's warmth.

Harry bit his tongue, trying desperately to retain his dignity, to refuse to participate in these ridiculous mind games that Voldemort was playing with himself, with Harry. Voldemort, who was standing very close to Harry now, watching his face with rapturous fascination. It was very hard to look away.

"He's wet for you, Riddle," whispered the Dark Lord, and Harry realized for the first time that Voldemort had not taken his eyes off of Harry's face the entire time. "Take him in your fingers. Touch him."

Tom obeyed - fingers slick as the ones touching his arse, sliding slowly, torturously up the underside of his weeping prick; and it was all too much - Voldemort offering instructions in that low, sultry voice, handsome Tom Riddle kissing his bum and pressing fingers inside of him, enough to tease but not to truly satisfy, and those red, red eyes, _staring_ -

"Please," Harry bit out at last, cheeks burning, eyes squeezing shut. "Please Tom, oh, Tom, _please _-"

There was a blinding, confusing flash of rage_, _and then he was violently shoved against the wall, pinned there. Long, expert fingers wrapped around his aching length, and Harry could have sobbed with relief if he hadn't been rocking into their touch, firm and knowing and _perfection_. His forehead leaning against the wall, Harry breathed heavily as he let himself be brought higher, higher - they knew exactly where to go, exactly what to do to make Harry gasp and keen and -

His eyes flew open. The hand wrapped around his member was not pink and human, but pale, skeletal. Lord Voldemort's hand.

"Tom -?" Harry gasped, trying to turn around, but Voldemort pinned him harder against the wall, growling; his body pressed flush against Harry's bare back.

"You will _never," up-down_, "call me," _up-down_, "by that name," _twist-rub-swirl_, "_again!_"

"But -" Harry panted, and then his eyes rolled back as Voldemort's clever fingers stole coherency from his thoughts altogether. When he came, it was with a shudder and a garbled cry; he only just managed to prevent Voldemort's given name from slipping past his lips.

The skeletal claws gripped his wrists, pulling him away from the wall to face Voldemort's rage as he came down abruptly from the post-coital high. Tom Riddle was nowhere to be seen.

"Where - where's Tom?"

"Tom is a _memory_, Harry," Voldemort hissed. "He no longer exists. He's a figment of your overactive imagination, a piece of magic in a locket. You won't be seeing him again."

A great knot was forming in Harry's chest. "But … you said-"

"_I don't care what I said!_" the Dark Lord snarled, fingers tightening to a point that was almost painful around Harry's wrists. "You are_ mine_, Harry Potter. You belong to Lord Voldemort now. We are in a war - there is no comfort in war. People, _traitors_, must die in war. You knew this when you handed yourself over to me! You knew what I was - what I am!"

Harry's heart was beating very fast. He reached up to touch Voldemort's face; the Dark Lord recoiled like he was something repulsive. "Tom," he began, but his voice tapered into a choked cry when the claws flew from his wrists to his shoulders, lifting him off the ground and holding him against the wall.

"Tom Riddle is _dead, _Potter," Voldemort hissed, his flat face only an inch from the boy's nose. "There is only Lord Voldemort now."

The ground turned upside-down, and then Harry was dumped unceremoniously onto the cold, stone floor, still donned in his clothes from the Ministry parade as he'd been when he'd entered the locket not an hour ago. Voldemort stood above him, glowering down at the boy furiously, before snatching the locket from the floor and storming out of the bedroom. The door slammed loudly behind him.

Harry took one numb look at his reflection - perfectly combed hair, pureblood robes, Harry Potter transformed into the Dark Lord's apprentice - and began to weep.

* * *

><p>She moved like a shadow through the corridors, true to her maiden name. The sleeping manor did not hear her pass; the snoring portraits did not bear witness as she opened the door to the drawing room silently, closing it just as softly behind her.<p>

The manor was always this still in the early hours before dawn. Wormtail was keeping watch in front of the cellar, but he was, predictably, sleeping. She cast a quick Silencing spell at the rat to ensure that her endeavors tonight would go uninterrupted, and then descended the stairs into the cellar, down, down into the darkness.

She had always been good with the Unforgivables. The Imperius was no different. She could lead a powerful, grown wizard off a cliff like the most brainless of animals with a mere flick of her wand. But something had changed within the Gibbon brothers the morning before. They had come dangerously close to breaking out of the heavy spells woven within each of their minds. And she could not take any risks that her plans would come to light, especially with the Dark Lord as temperamental as he had been since Potter had come permanently into the picture.

_Potter. _Her lip curled, pausing on the stair for a moment to collect herself. He was the reason she was doing this - the reason she could not be foiled. And she was _so close_. It clearly had been a foolhardy decision to entrust someone as brainless as Lambert Gibbon and his Squib brother to carry out such a significant step in her plot. She saw now that she would simply need to do it herself.

Be that as it may, not all of her loose ends had been tied from the last blunder. She resumed her silent descent, her wand heavy and comforting in her fingers.

The other prisoners had been temporarily moved to clear the way for the three newest traitors to the Dark Lord's cause. There was only one left now; he was sleeping in the corner, his labored breaths colored by the occasional pained whimper. Yaxley was very dull; his pathetic excuses had sated the Dark Lord for the time being, but Lord Voldemort was extremely suspicious by nature, and she could not afford any more impediments in her plan. She couldn't risk Yaxley breaking out of her grasp and revealing her disloyalty.

She gave one that last look up the dark stairs and then approached the sleeping man, silent as the night. She had always been good with the Unforgivables. Potter would learn this soon enough.


	31. V:5

Warnings: Slash, Harry/Voldemort, sexual content, angst

Rating: M

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Entirely the property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, etc. I'm not making any money off of this.

A/N: Wow. Ahem. Hello, everyone. Has it really almost been a year? Yup, I'm still alive, and incredibly astounded by the patience and loyalty of my lovely readers. I won't even attempt to make excuses, other than that life has sort of gotten away with me, and I've been caught up in a lot of other projects (the fruits of which you will hopefully be seeing sometime soon!) - so that I can just let you guys dig into this beefy update. I've been crying and pulling my hair out over this for the past ten months, so I hope it lives up to expectations. I also do have every intention of finishing this story, and I am going to try to never ever leave you guys hanging like this again, cross my fingers, my heart, my eyes, &c.

Thank you all for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p>5.<p>

The photograph was worn and tired with age, corners curling upward. But it did not damper the beauty of the woman held captive within. Lily was positively beaming up at him, her smile frozen forever with cheap magical ink. It didn't do her justice, despite the spell that made her eyes glitter, silent laughter spilling from her mouth as she glanced out the side of the frame.

Even in her death, Snape found that he was intensely jealous of her happiness. He traced his finger down the side of her face. A beautiful smile, one that he had been treated to less and less as the years wore on as it had been turned instead upon Potter. Loathsome, repulsive git.

And now he was considering abandoning her once more, entrusting her to another Potter. An ugly emotion rose within his chest. Snape forced himself to look away, steering his gaze to the window where the sun was setting behind the hills. He needed to return to Hogwarts before the Carrows had the opportunity to run the castle into the ground. Perhaps they wouldn't have time tonight after all - surely the Dark Lord had already taken him to their bed, doing whatever manner of disgusting things they did together every night.

His fingers tightened around the edges of the picture - _his _picture. How infuriating, that he must debase himself time and time again for the spawn of the man that he despised with every molecule of his being. And so that Potter might simply hand himself over to the Dark Lord every evening like some slavering, obedient dog! Potter - who should be obedient to _no one_, least of all the Darkest wizard of their century!

No, Snape decided furiously, there would _not _be time tonight after all.

A dark shape streaked across the burning sky: the Dark Lord, leaving the manor for some undoubtedly terrible purpose at this time in the evening. Perhaps they had quarreled. Snape felt some satisfaction at this idea; it would serve Potter right, the pretentious little snot.

But his bitterness was fleeting. The image of Potter's eyes - _Lily's_ eyes - floated persistently in his mind, so broken and pained this afternoon in the Ministry. Potter didn't have any right to be _broken_. Potter was supposed to be arrogant, fierce, stubborn. The day that Potter was broken was the day that wizarding Europe could wave goodbye to its freedom.

Snape took one last look at the photograph: his childhood best friend, radiant in her happiness, completely unaware that her life would be stolen from her but a few short years later. "I'm sorry, Lily," he murmured, the words like glass in his mouth. He remembered her own last words to him: _Remember what you've still got left to lose._

He didn't look at the photograph again as he walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

><p>"Cissy! Open up!"<p>

White knuckles rapped upon the wooden door. It did not open. Mouth twisting, the woman leaned to the crack between door and doorjamb and hissed:

"Cissy, I demand that you open this door!"

There was a rustling from the room behind it, but it still did not open.

"Narcissa," the woman whispered furiously, "if you do not come out of that room _right this instant_, I swear on our father's grave that I shall -"

There was the sound of a lock clicking, and then her sister's face appeared in the crack in the door. Bellatrix was momentarily stunned into silence by how _badly _she looked - dark shadows were smudged beneath her eyes, and her once lovely face had a drawn, hollow look to it. She clearly was not eating enough.

"Bella." Her voice had not fared any better; it was weak and thin from weeping, with a cold edge that said she was not receiving any visitors. "It's nearly midnight."

Well, she would receive her sister, whether she liked it or not. Bellatrix pushed forcibly on the door, met with some resistance from the woman on the other side, before it gave way and Bellatrix was striding into the attic in which her sister had spent these last many weeks.

"Bellatrix!" Narcissa hissed in protest, but the dark-haired woman only turned around and silenced her with a sharp glare.

"Shut the door."

Narcissa was trembling visibly. For a moment, Bellatrix was struck with cold fury. How had she, the powerful and loyal Bellatrix Lestrange, the Dark Lord's most trusted and precious, been disgraced with such an impressionable and pathetic sister? It was difficult enough already to keep up the Black name with the other unspeakable woman running around and marrying filthy Muggles. At least Narcissa had had enough good sense to get herself married to a Malfoy - although, as it turned out, Lucius had proved as weak-willed and depressing as his bride.

"I shall not take orders from you in my own home, Bella," said Narcissa, lip quivering, a final attempt at defiance.

"It ceased to be your home the moment the Dark Lord declared it his own - and, further, the moment your traitor of a whelp defiled it with the enemy's presence. Now, _shut the door_."

Intense loathing burned in icy blue eyes as Narcissa obeyed. Bellatrix attempted a sweet smile as she flicked her wand, sliding the lock into its place. _Patience, Bella_. She needed Narcissa's trust; it would not do to anger her so soon.

"This is hardly a decent hour for this," began Narcissa, but Bellatrix ignored her, walking about the attic, examining the disgusting hole that her sister had been occupying all winter.

"The stench is horrendous," said Bellatrix off-handedly, lip curling with distaste. She stopped before the empty bed, which was extremely ruffled; several empty vials sat on the stand beside it. She snatched one, examining the label, not noticing the way that Narcissa had stiffened visibly behind her. "Having nightmares, Cissy?"

Hands grabbed her shoulders, and Narcissa spun her around, gaunt face transformed with anger. "Because you've cared so deeply about the state of my health as of late?" She moved between her sister and the empty bed. "What is your purpose here, Bella? You haven't paid a thought to my well-being since December, when you called me _mad _for grieving over my filthy, dead son."

Tears were shining in her eyes, gray in the moonlight. Bellatrix forced down her anger, trying to remember her purpose here. Her opinion of her pathetic sister - and her fool of a dead nephew, for that matter - could wait.

"It's been nearly three months, Cissy." Bellatrix brushed her hand gently against her sister's hollow cheek; Narcissa flinched, but did not pull away.

"Since when? Since you've bothered to visit your mourning sister?" Her voice was shaking. Such a sad, weak woman she had become. "What do you want from me, Bella?"

"I want to help you." Bellatrix twisted her face into its most caring, sisterly expression.

"I don't believe you."

"We can help each other." Her voice was soft and insistent. "I _need_ you, Cissy. The Dark Lord needs you."

"I don't know what you're -"

"Potter, my dear sister!" The words were barely whispered, but excitement shone feverishly in Bellatrix's eyes. "Together, we can destroy Potter once and for all! You won't trigger the wards - you're a Malfoy by marriage. Oh, darling Narcissa," and here she took her sister's unwilling hand, caressing it, "wouldn't you like to be in the Dark Lord's good graces again?"

Narcissa jerked her hand away violently, face contorting with shock. "Have you gone _mad_?" she hissed, looking about the room, as though the Dark Lord might be lurking in a corner eavesdropping on their conversation. "Bella, he'll have your head! He'll have both our heads! How could destroying Potter possibly _fix _anything?"

"Potter has bewitched the Dark Lord, much like he bewitched your son! The boy is a demon - powerful beyond imagination - and when his death breaks the spell, the Dark Lord will understand - he will _reward _us beyond any of his other servants, who have sat by and watched as he's been wooed by the charms of a seventeen-year-old _devil_! Just think of it, Cissy! We will be greater than any in his eyes - the most loyal and faithful of his servants!"

The first hint of uncertainty flickered across Narcissa's face. "Draco?" she whispered. Her gaze darted for the briefest of moments to the empty bed. "He's bewitched Draco as well? Then… then perhaps the Dark Lord would be merciful…"

"Yes, yes, surely, Cissy," said Bellatrix impatiently, lips stretching in a mad grin, "and poor Lucius will be exonerated of all past transgressions, and all will be well again! If the child could bewitch the Dark Lord, surely our master will understand how easily he fooled your son. And we shall be the ones to reveal Potter's true nature - we shall be rewarded! But _I need you, _Cissy - you are the only one who can get past the wards on the second floor."

Narcissa's troubled gaze wandered to the window, then to the bed, then to the window again._ Perhaps a little push, then_.

Bellatrix concentrated, a subtle nudge against her sister's mind. Upon Narcissa's next inhale, she breathed in a fine, barely visible mist.

"If Potter's bewitched Draco - if the Dark Lord will truly understand…" Narcissa looked up, the life back in her eyes despite the trembling in her hands, her voice hardly above a whisper. "I will do whatever you think is best, Bella."

* * *

><p>Harry dreamt of his mother that night.<p>

It wasn't as any other dream he'd had before. Lily Potter was young - younger than she'd been in photos Hagrid had given him. Sixteen, perhaps seventeen years old. She was waiting outside a brick house on a street lined with identical brick houses. A hood was pulled over her head, snowflakes gathering on the shoulders of her cloak. She stood very still on the sidewalk, staring up at the grey sky with strikingly green eyes; she was worrying at her thumb the way Harry did sometimes when he was upset or anxious.

It was the most Mugglish neighborhood Harry had ever seen. A house nearby had all its windows boarded up with rotting wood, bricks crumbling in the foundation. The nearest street lamp was broken. Harry could not imagine how Lily Potter had found herself in such a place.

But even though it was Harry's dream, he knew quite clearly that he was not a part of it. He could not reach out and touch her; she would not notice if he called out to her and asked what she was doing. He might have fallen into a Penseive for all that his presence mattered here.

As though sensing these thoughts, she turned around quite suddenly to stare at him. Her face was dark with some painful emotion, forehead wrinkled and lips pursed.

"You don't need to do this."

It took Harry a moment to realize that, yes, she was speaking to him. "Do what?" he asked, although he had a sinking feeling in his stomach that he knew exactly what she was talking about.

"You don't need to do this," she said again, stepping toward him, and Harry knew what she knew. Knew what she _meant_.

"I don't have any other choice."

"Of course you do," Lily said hotly, and Harry was confused by the anger in her voice. "You could do the right thing."

"But I don't know what the right thing is! I don't know what I'm supposed to do!"

"Well, this is _wrong!_" she said, face darkening with anger. "He - _this _- will _never _be the right choice! He's a murderer! He'll turn you into a murderer, too! I can't believe you don't understand that by now!"

"Mum," Harry said, chest tightening painfully. He didn't understand - how could she blame him, how could she be so angry when he was only trying to do what was right?

"Remember what he's already taken from you," she said softly, and her eyes glowed green, a flash of a spell, a woman's scream. "Remember what you've still got left to lose. You don't need to do this."

And then her mouth was moving, but no more words came out; the snowy street was fading, the sky darkening; and Harry awoke on the floor of the dark bedroom, alone, cheeks wet, clutching a photograph of Lily Potter to his chest.

* * *

><p>Lord Voldemort was not pleased.<p>

His servants, at least, could sense this. They skittered around him like mice trapped in the nest of a hungry serpent, keeping to the edges of the room, their eyes lowered in deference. But the stench of their dread did not make him feel any better. It made him, in fact, even more furious - was he truly so hideous to look upon? Would they, like Harry Potter, prefer the aristocratic nose, the soft grey eyes of his Muggle father's pretty face?

He had not felt so disturbed since Harry had betrayed him. But he refused to allow himself to become so affected over a petulant child. He hadn't gone to check up on the boy, hadn't touched his mind all morning. Harry had apparently locked himself in their bedroom once again, and Lord Voldemort would be damned before he spent another afternoon waiting pathetically in another corridor before another locked door.

"I've no news of the resistance, my Lord," said Fenrir Greyback, who was kneeling on the stone floor. The third of his Death Eaters to report to him today, and easily the least competent.

"No news," Voldemort repeated. This did not help his temper. He was eager to capture the remainder of Dumbledore's Order. He intended to kill every last one of them, slowly, in the most painful ways he could imagine. And Harry would not argue; Harry would watch, silently, because Harry was _his_, he had pledged himself to Voldemort's cause, and he would prove his loyalty, especially after his infuriating behavior the night before. The Dark Lord leaned forward in his throne. "And the interrogations?"

"They've been carrying on as scheduled, my Lord, but no one seems to have a clue. And believe me, it's not for lack of persuasion." A nasty grin full of sharp teeth twisted Greyback's ugly face.

The Dark Lord was not amused. "Perhaps Lord Voldemort has not been persuasive enough with _you_, werewolf."

The smile slid predictably right off his pointed face. "Of - of course not, m'lord. We're doing the best we can, but - we'll do better, I swear it."

Disgusting. How easily even the fiercest of his servants crumpled before him. Their fear had gratified him once - but now it was repulsive to him. He was surrounded by weak-minded fools. Malfoy, Dolohov, Rookwood, Wormtail, Travers… only his dear and faithful Bellatrix was not cowering against a wall, standing tall and proud amongst trembling fools.

"But how can I be certain, werewolf?" Voldemort's voice was soft and dangerous. "It's been two weeks since I've had any news of the resistance, and that information came not from you, but from Harry Potter."

"And where did Potter's information lead you?" said Greyback, leering. "To an empty house, as I so recall, and it led _him _straight into a tree and knocked his head right -"

_"Crucio."_

The werewolf's screams split the air. The beautiful, ancient wand in his hand delighted at the curse - a wand spun by Death, intimate with the pleasures of torture and cruelty. But even the Cruciatus did not abate Voldemort's displeasure. He rose to his feet, face cold and still, intensifying the magic that distorted the werewolf's limbs - thirsty for the satisfaction of another's pain. As Greyback shouted and thrashed, Voldemort could almost imagine Potter in his place, begging for the Dark Lord's forgiveness - pretty face twisted up in pain - punishment for _daring _to make Lord Voldemort feel so -

"Do you understand now?" he hissed over the werewolf's cries. "Do you find me _persuasive_? There is nothing but pain and death for all who defy me! Is this a message you are capable of communicating, werewolf?"

There was the creak of the door opening - Voldemort's head jerked up, just in time to get a clear glimpse of horrified green eyes - before it slammed shut again. The steady flow of Dark Magic in his fingers fell away, and Voldemort was left only with disgust and dull rage. The werewolf's whimpering sobs echoed in the hall. Voldemort was tempted to silence him permanently.

"Master," began Bellatrix, but Voldemort was already striding across the room, anger barely concealed. He threw the sniveling werewolf out of his way with a flick of his wand and swept explosively into the corridor, leaving his Death Eaters stunned and silent in his wake.

He found the boy outside, standing on the snowy lawn with his back to the Dark Lord. His arms were wrapped around himself against the biting winter air. He did not look up as Voldemort approached, although his shoulders tensed visibly, a reaction to the Dark Lord's presence. Voldemort remembered for the hundredth time that morning how easily this boy had melted in Tom Riddle's arms, the memory's mocking words: _If you truly cared for him, you wouldn't need to comfort him at all._

Lord Voldemort was not pleased.

"What is the meaning of this?"

The boy still did not look up; apparently even his shoes were more pleasant to behold than Voldemort's face. He had dressed himself in his fine robes. It looked as though he'd even considered picking up his comb. "I'm your apprentice. I thought I was expected to follow you at all times."

Red eyes flashed dangerously. "It seemed as though you were much keener on running away from me."

"Sorry," said Harry bitterly to his feet. "I've had my fill of violence for the past twenty-four hours."

Voldemort tried to rein in a flash of temper. "I did not torture the Corner boy. His death was painless. I showed him great mercy, considering the severity of his behavior."

"Right. My fill for the rest of forever, then." Harry was picking at a hangnail. Voldemort wanted to blast it off his finger; perhaps then the stubborn boy would look at him. "Is that why you're here now? To show me some great mercy, too - _my Lord?"_

"Harry." It took a gargantuan effort to remain calm, but it was the only way for him to retain control of the situation. "If this is an expression of misplaced anger from what happened yesterday -"

_"Misplaced anger?_" Harry barked out a laugh. "You left me! You yelled at me and left! What did you expect, exactly?"

Voldemort felt the familiar fury rise up in his chest. "I expected you to obey me."

"I _have _obeyed you!" Harry's voice broke, and he finally looked up. It struck the Dark Lord like a physical ache that the green gaze was shining with tears. "I've obeyed you in everything! I've let you parade me around the Ministry, I watched you murder my friend - I even let you make a fool out of me inside your locket! Some great present that was!"

"I did not intend for you to -"

"To what? To enjoy being around someone who actually cares about me?" The pain on Harry's face was nearly too much for him to bear.

"How can you possibly think I do not care for you?" Voldemort hissed; it took all of his effort not to seize the boy's shoulders and shake him_._ "I can do nothing - go no where - without thinking of you only and you first! Have you not remarked the lengths to which I have gone to ensure your comfort? Your safety? You, who are the constant subject of my thoughts! You, for whom I have pardoned betrayal and humiliation time and again so that I might keep you at my side! My servants snigger behind my back, and yet I remain a fool to Harry Potter - to a stubborn, infuriating -"

"There's more to caring about someone than that!" Harry interrupted him, face twisted up with desperation. "Safety and comfort don't mean _anything_ when you're being a miserable git toward me! You don't give a _damn_ about me!"

Voldemort wanted to scream - to shake him until his brain rattled about his empty skull - to _force _him to acknowledge how important and precious he had become_. _Part of him wished for nothing more than to end this madness here and now - to lock the infuriating child in an enchanted cave or a Gringotts vault, as Tom Riddle had the rest of his Horcruxes - as Voldemort should have done with this impossible boy in the first place. A simple future stretched before him, one without Harry Potter haunting his every thought, without Dumbledore's ghost mocking him from the shadow of every kiss and smile his Horcrux offered him.

But in the end, it seemed that the decision

_(a gangly boy spilling forth from the bathroom stall - the way his breath had first caught against Voldemort's fingertips - the mad beating of his heart in the space between their mouths - Harry with snow melting on the tip of his nose, the small curve of his mouth, a smile - Harry, shining with darkness as he performed his first Unforgivable - Harry - impossible and frustrating and fascinating and lovely and his)_

had been made for him long ago.

"You are a part of me." His voice was hoarse, unsteady. "I've cared as much for you as I have my own soul."

"Yeah, because you've taken such good care of that." Harry rubbed his face with his hands, disheveling his glasses in the process. "Sorry. That was - uncalled for." He sighed. "Look. Tom is only special to me because he's _you_. And I know that you - _care _for me, but - sometimes it's difficult for me to remember that. I never meant to hurt you."

"You did not _hurt _me," Voldemort snapped.

"Right." Harry sent him an irritated glare. "But you said that you couldn't give me - what I needed. And I thought that's why you were letting me spend time with Tom instead. So that I wouldn't expect so much of you."

"I am giving you all that I am able." His voice was little more than a whisper, face perfectly stoic. "Is that not enough?"

There was a flash of sadness in the green gaze, and for a moment, Voldemort thought he could hear Harry's thoughts - even as he kept them so far from his own mind, terrified of what he might find there: _You will never give me what I need. You will never understand._

But then Harry's arms were warm around him, and the child's face was buried in his shoulder. "I hate you," the boy whispered to the wind, and Voldemort did not know if it would have been more painful if he'd said the alternative.

And against all reason, Voldemort allowed himself to return the embrace, to give in to warm skin and soft hair and kindness. "Is it enough?"

"Yes." Harry glared up at him. "I'm here, aren't I?"

The winter breeze lifted the fringe from the famous scar, a jagged pink line on his forehead. Voldemort closed his eyes for a moment. "I... should not have left you."

Lord Voldemort would not apologize. He had not been in the wrong. But some of the tension seeped out of Harry's body, and its departure brought him relief, unexpected and entirely welcome.

"Where did you go?" Harry's voice was hardly above a whisper.

"Away."

"But where did you sleep?"

There was a reluctant pause. "I did not sleep."

Any remaining anger in Harry eyes vanished, leaving his expression naked and sad, before the boy's face was pressed once more against his neck. Harry's breath was warm against his bare skin. There were a few moments of silence, and then, murmured against his throat: "So come to bed."

Voldemort's eyes fell shut. An image flashed suddenly and vividly behind his closed eyelids: his Harry, miles of naked, warm skin, sprawled across the blankets with a dark smile. Voldemort breathed deeply into the head of wild hair. "I cannot."

"Yes, you can." Harry's voice was teasing against his ear. "You're Lord Voldemort. You can do anything you'd like."

A slender hand came up of its own volition to tangle itself in his Horcrux's impossible hair. "There are - servants, Harry, coming today to deliver important news to their master -"

"Like Greyback?" Harry looked up at him with raised eyebrows, incredulous. "Yeah, that looked like some real important news." He smiled softly, leaned forward so his lips touched Voldemort's ear: "Come to bed."

Voldemort struggled to remember what exactly had been so important about today's appointments. Warm lips fluttered kisses across his skin. "_Harry.._."

"Tom," Harry whispered.

And all at once, Voldemort's stomach contracted, as though it had been doused suddenly in icy water. _Tom_, Harry had gasped, writhing against the wall of a smokey attic, _Tom - oh Tom oh please oh Tom oh_ -

Voldemort recoiled from Harry's touch, sucking a breath of freezing, winter air into his lungs.

_I can give him more than you ever would, _Tom Riddle whispered poisonously, his very worst fear incarnate, his precious Harry lost in his embrace. _I can give him what he needs_.

The boy reached out his hand to pull Voldemort back.

"Wait," Harry said, voice strained, "wait, I didn't mean -"

"Do not touch me," Voldemort hissed. The memory of those fingers winding themselves in Tom Riddle's hair was too much for him to bear. He was painfully aware of his thin and ugly lips, pulled over his sharp teeth in a snarl, his slitted nostrils flaring in fury. He had seen his eyes many times in Harry's memories to know how they must look - blazing with fury, with flaming madness, the color of anger. Of Hell.

_It is no wonder he prefers a locket to your company, _Riddle murmured inside his mind, stroking Harry's hair, kissing Harry's eyes. _It is no wonder he thinks you a monster._

_I don't love anyone else like this, _Harry had whispered with a smile full of sea-salt and stars, a hundred moons ago. _Only Tom._

"Voldemort," said Harry - the real Harry, shivering here in the cold at Malfoy Manor - his voice steady and stern.

But Lord Voldemort had vanished in an explosion of darkness and angry magic, leaving Harry Potter alone in the snow.

* * *

><p>Harry took a deep breath, looked calmly up at the grey sky, and screamed.<p>

At the top of his lungs, right where Voldemort had just been snarling at him, he screamed, a sound of infinite frustration. There was no response, because there was no one there - just the empty, sprawling, snow-covered lawns where Malfoy had died seven weeks ago so that Harry might have a chance to escape. And so Harry screamed again.

If there had been something to throw, he would have thrown it; but as it were, there was nothing breakable in the immediate vicinity. So Harry only kicked at the fresh snow and wrapped his arms around himself tight to choking and tried to yell loud enough to drown out the sound of his heart shattering, bleeding out the rest of his meager hope through the cracks.

"I hate you," he said, over and over and over again; the fog of his breath seemed to give the words a physical weight upon his heart. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."

He walked back inside, ears ringing, his insides numb and cold. He had done nothing but sleep the night before, but he returned to the bedroom anyway, curled up upon the blankets with his eyes squeezed shut against the harsh sunlight.

At least sleep would stop him from wondering what the hell he was going to do when this all fell apart.

* * *

><p>Fingers, combing through his hair. Sunlight, leaking through a crack in the curtains, which had been pulled shut.<p>

Reluctantly, Harry stirred.

Voldemort sat beside his bed in the dark, a red silhouette against the window. He was waiting beside Harry's bed as he had often been these past several weeks during Harry's lengthy recovery - but there was something different about his eyes that made Harry's breath catch, two bright nerves exposed to the air.

Vulnerable.

And then the fingers withdrew, and the moment was over. A dark veil had fallen between them again, and Harry might have hit something if he didn't feel so exhausted.

"You're going to drive me insane," Harry said, without thinking.

Voldemort looked momentarily taken by surprise, brow furrowing in the darkness. "You - are not without your own complications."

Unexpectedly, Harry found himself laughing. He tried to hold it back, but it escaped, strangled and a little hysterical. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms around his legs. "You've stormed off on me twice now in the past day, and I'm the complicated one?"

"I do not _storm _anywhere." Voldemort bristled. "And that - did not go quite as I expected."

"Well, we didn't expect a lot of things to happen, did we?"

Silence fell over them. Harry looked down at his knees, and was keenly aware of his throat, sore from yelling, and the curtains that had been closed while he slept, and the heaviness that pulled on his heart.

"I said to you, once - that I could not give you what you needed," said Voldemort, and Harry was instantly reminded of another bedroom, in another lifetime, the Dark Lord's arms tight around him.

"I know," said Harry bitterly, "you've already said all of this, you don't need to -"

"I was wrong."

Harry's head jerked up. For a moment, he couldn't believe he had heard correctly. The world spun and his heart clenched and in the middle of it all was Lord Voldemort, staring at him, voice soft and eyes bright and intent:

"Anything you'll ever need - you shall have it from me. I will give you realms and treasures beyond your wildest dreams. Knowledge, power, pleasure - you shall have the world from me, Harry Potter. But you must be _mine_, and mine alone. You must belong to Lord Voldemort. Not to Tom Riddle, not to your red-headed wench - _to me." _He lifted Harry's face with a finger, staring into his eyes. "Do you understand?"

_I cannot - love you_. Voldemort's words echoed in his mind, wrenching at his heartstrings - and yet here he was, telling Harry he could give him what he needed. _I don't believe you_, Harry thought. _I don't think you can. _But instead, his fingers found Voldemort's hands - cool and long and trembling in the dark - and then Voldemort was holding his face and they were kissing. And it was salty and wet and Harry's chest was aching with the throbbing cage of two souls - but it was all right. It was all going to be all right.

_I love you, _in mouth moving against mouth, in fingers grasping for purchase against skin and blankets, _I love you_, in bare feet dragging down naked calves, in small, soundless cries muffled against collarbones, in quivering fingers gently cupping one fragile, beating heart - _I love you_, they did not say.

And it was all right.

* * *

><p>Harry rarely woke before Voldemort, but the sunrise stubbornly pulled him from sleep, and Harry could not find his way back into his dreams.<p>

Green eyes blinked open slowly to meet the day. The beginnings of the morning sun fell over the bed, illuminating Voldemort's face, foreign with sleep. Harry, who almost never got to see the Dark Lord this way, found himself captivated. The slitted nostrils dilated rhythmically with his breathing. Without the terrifying red eyes glaring down at him, Voldemort's face looked almost childlike, smooth and easy with sleep. His facial muscles weren't pulled taut in restrained fury, but relaxed, almost peaceful.

_I love him. _

Harry tested the words out in his mind, silently. With Voldemort's face softened by dawn-light, they didn't sound quite so horrible as when Hermione had suggested the notion to him a few weeks ago. And what did love even mean, anyway? Was love the desire he had always had to settle down with Ginny after school, to marry her and make a family, live an ordinary, happy life? Or was love this ache that grew in his chest as he watched this man sleeping, when he made this man smile? Was there any room for love in fierce kisses, in teeth and nails, in tears and shoving and screaming and betrayal? Could love even exist beside all this hatred?

Well, that was more than enough deep thinking for this ungodly hour. Reluctantly, Harry disentangled himself from the Dark Lord's sleep-warm skin - slowly, so that he didn't wake him - and stepped gingerly from the bed.

The photograph was hidden in the pocket of a pair of faded jeans, folded neatly at the bottom of his wardrobe. Harry extracted it carefully. Looking once behind him to confirm that the Dark Lord was still fast asleep, he tip-toed across the room and sat quietly at Voldemort's unoccupied desk.

Lily Potter glanced over her shoulder with Harry's grin, staring at her son through the wall of time and death. Resurrected through a magical photograph. Perhaps she had still been Lily Evans when this picture was taken - she surely hadn't yet graduated from Hogwarts. She was young, close in age to the girl who had visited him in that strange, disturbing dream.

So Lily Evans, then, continued to smile up at him, looking at the camera with a hint of pleasant surprise, as though she hadn't expected him to be there. She was sitting in the shade of a big tree, wearing a flower-print dress. Her red hair, striking even through time's wear on the photograph, was tucked into a straw sun hat; she reached up to brush a loose strand from green eyes. Harry's eyes.

Who was on the other side of the camera? James? It had to be James - there was no one else Lily would have been smiling at like that. Harry touched her face through the photo, something painful spreading slowly through his chest. Where had this photo come from? Why hadn't he seen it before? Wasn't it strange, that he should have a dream like that about his mother, and then wake up with her picture in his fist?

_Remember what you've still got left to lose. _

He found himself wondering once more if it had only been a dream. Perhaps Lily had been trying to send him a message.

"It is rude to pry, Harry."

Harry jumped, startled, in his chair. Voldemort was rising from the bed; a curious, sleepy half-smile curled his lips.

"Huh?" Harry blinked, feeling stupid in his surprise.

"Pry. Come, now - it is only one syllable." Voldemort smirked. "To pry - to sneak, to intrude on one's privacy, to wake up earlier than another so one might ferret about another's desk..."

"I know what it means," Harry snapped, though his voice lacked any bite. "And I wasn't prying. Most of this -" he gestured at the assortment of papers and books, "is all written in languages I don't even know, anyway."

Voldemort frowned at him, suspicious. "Then how might a sleeping boy find himself at my desk while I remain slumbering, unawares?"

"Calm down," Harry said, and smiled. "I was only looking at a picture, all right? _My _picture," he added quickly, when Voldemort's frowned deepened. Harry held up the photograph. "It's of my mum."

It was snatched from Harry's fingers before he could blink. "Where did you get this?"

"Hey!" Harry stood up, irritated. "Give that back!"

"Answer my question."

"I've always had it."

"Do not lie to me."

"I found it at school."

"Do not lie to me, Harry."

"It was a Christmas present."

_"Do not lie to me!"_

"What does it matter?" Harry was losing his patience. "Talk about prying! How come you're allowed to have a whole desk full of secrets, and I don't even get to keep a picture of my dead mum?" He snatched it back and glared. "Perhaps I'll tell you when I feel like it."

The glare in those eyes could have cut through dragon scales. "Do not be petulant."

"I'll be however I want to," said Harry, "because it's my picture, and you can't take it from me."

For a moment, Voldemort looked like he was ready to do just that. But he only raised a hand to his brow and closed his eyes for a long moment. "You must listen to me, Harry." Voldemort's voice was very tense, but when he looked up again, his eyes were softer than when he'd closed them. "You may think you know what is best for yourself, but there are those among my followers who would... hurt you, Harry, and -"

"I can take care of myself," said Harry, before he could stop himself.

"Not as well as you think," Voldemort replied, words clipped with anger. "Of the two of us, my dear Horcrux, who is the one who stood beside the other's sickbed, night and day, as he struggled slowly toward recovery? Waiting restlessly for the day that you might open your eyes and speak? Watching you sleep and heal and wondering what might happen next time, should you not be rescued quickly enough - should I let you escape from my sight for just those few minutes - should I wake up again one day without you beside me, without ever a hope for your return?"

Harry faltered, taken aback. "I'm not going anywhere," he said at last, though he felt a pang of guilt as he said it.

Voldemort touched Harry's face with his long fingers. "Not without me."

Harry sighed and leaned into the Dark Lord's touch. "It means a lot, you know." His voice was quiet. "That you actually care."

"More than you shall ever understand."

Harry looked down again at his picture. Lily beamed back at him, laughing silently. Harry gave another sigh, and then, his voice quiet and sad: "I wish I could have known her." He looked up, and added hesitantly, testing the waters, "I'm going to keep it."

Voldemort did not offer him any resistance.

* * *

><p>Voices murmured along the corridor, whispering dangerous things from behind the false safety of closed doors. Harry was sure he heard the word <em>Potter <em>slip among them at least once. It made him nervous and itchy, and he tugged at the collar of his robes, ran a hand through his hair for the hundredth time that morning.

Cool fingers trailed along the back of his hand. "Are you sure about this, my little lion?"

The concern in Voldemort's eyes was touching, but it only strengthened Harry's resolve to go through with this. Voldemort hadn't insisted Harry accompany him to today's rounds of meetings, even though they'd been put off as a direct result of Harry's antics yesterday. Perhaps Voldemort still felt guilty for being such a git. But Harry had already made up his mind the night before, while Voldemort had held him in the small hours of the morning, whispering

(_my soul, my only, my brave and beautiful boy)_

Parseltongue into his hair. _Tom Riddle is dead_, Voldemort had screamed; but he had said it in anger, and Harry knew it wasn't true. Because Harry had seen Tom Riddle in the flesh. He had touched his mouth and kissed his spine; he knew all the degrees and colors of his smile and what exactly inspired them; and he knew this not from any boy in a locket, but from the man standing beside him.

Maybe Harry didn't need Tom Riddle after all. Maybe it was time to stop searching for flecks of gray amidst the scarlet and see Voldemort as he truly was - an enigmatic synthesis of past and future, immortality and perfection given flesh. But mostly, a man who was terrified of death. Of losing Harry.

Harry tried for a reassuring smile and squeezed Voldemort's hand. "What sort of lion do you take me for? I'm not afraid of a bunch of snakes."

But the snakes, it turned out, were pretty intimidating. The collection of Death Eaters seated at the long table might have fallen instantly silent as the Dark Lord entered the room, but Harry could see from the bitterness in their eyes that they had, in fact, been talking about the Dark Lord's new companion - and that the things they'd been saying weren't very nice.

"My Lord, my Lord," they murmured, heads bowed, as Lord Voldemort swept across the room. Harry followed awkwardly close behind.

"Master," said Bellatrix Lestrange, who was sitting at the end of the table beside Voldemort's throne. Contempt flashed in her eyes as she glanced at Harry, and then she looked back at the Dark Lord, confused. "I was not aware Potter would be joining us... I could conjure an additional seat...?"

"That will not be necessary, Bella," said Voldemort softly, and he looked down the table, toward the empty chair beside a thin-mouthed Lucius Malfoy. "It seems your sister continues to deny us the pleasure of her company."

Something changed in the air, tension thickening almost palpably. "My Lord." Malfoy spoke up, his voice dry and a little hoarse. "My wife has fallen very ill - she sends her sincerest apologies -"

"Do you take me for a fool, Lucius?" Harry shivered at the danger in his voice. "Narcissa has been absent from every gathering this month. Perhaps it is time for a conversation. You will bring her to me this evening."

Malfoy did not meet the Dark Lord's eye as he spoke, and for the first time, Harry felt sorry for him. "Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort turned back expectantly to the dark woman sitting beside his throne. "Bella."

"Master," said Lestrange, who was staring at Voldemort with big, admiring eyes. Harry thought he might be sick.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed impatiently. "Did I not make myself clear? Your sister's seat is empty."

Shock flickered across Bellatrix's face. She seemed to be struggling to make sense of the situation. At last, she rose to her feet with a feeble, "Oh... of - of course, Master." She found her sister's empty chair halfway down the table with as much dignity as she could muster, heels of her boots clicking loudly on the stone floor.

Harry looked at his feet, avoiding the shocked and accusatory gazes staring at him from every direction.

_I could have just sat there myself, you know, _he thought reproachfully at the Dark Lord. Voldemort did not dignify this with an answer, so Harry sat down uncomfortably in Lestrange's empty chair, preparing himself for a long and horrible morning.

The rest of the meeting, however, was decidedly lacking in excitement, the seating fiasco notwithstanding.

There was a conflict among the giant tribes over goat herds. The Ministry needed approval of their latest series of anti-Muggle pamphlets: _Don't You Put That Cell Phone Near MY Baby! _By the time they were discussing a recent shortage of dragon blood, a topic that should have put anyone but Snape to sleep, Harry had long since drifted.

"I don't understand," Macnair was saying loudly. "Why can't we just gut one of the ones we've got?"

"Because they're endangered creatures in Britain, you dolt," said Mulciber. "Egypt still isn't cooperating, and everyone knows that's where all the dragons are these days."

"What about China?" put in Travers. "Don't they got them - Chinese dragons, or what have you?"

"The People's Ministry in China hasn't involved itself with foreign conflicts in thousands of years, and they certainly aren't about to begin now," said Malfoy, who seemed to have gotten over his melancholy to flaunt this bit of political know-how.

Harry, who was picking at a hangnail, was deep in thought about kisses. Seamus had once said it only really counted if someone's tongue was in the other person's mouth, but Harry had had loads of kisses with Voldemort that didn't involve any tongues at all - even kisses where Voldemort's mouth wasn't anywhere near his own.

"What should we even care about dragon's blood, anyhow?" Travers demanded, scowling with crooked teeth in Malfoy's direction. "I couldn't give a bowtruckle's backside about a shortage of dragon blood! The only thing I'm concerned with is Muggle blood, and there's more than enough of that to spill."

This was met with uproarious approval.

"Dragon's blood has a number of known valuable medicinal applications, and an even greater number of unknown ones," said Snape irritably, although no one appeared to be listening.

"It's a fantastic oven cleaner," put in Goyle's father. Everyone turned and stared. "What? It is!"

Harry sunk a little deeper in his chair, distracted, eyes wandering to the vaulted ceiling. Kisses on the mouth were quite lovely, but Voldemort knew how to kiss him in other places that made Harry's lips too busy trembling and gasping to be kissing anything. He thought about Voldemort's mouth the night before, dragging along the naked nape of his neck as he prepared him with his long fingers, lips memorizing every bump and groove of Harry's spinal column slowly, thoroughly, until Harry thought his muscles would cramp from anticipation, hot face buried in his pillow to keep from begging.

By the time the Dark Lord's tongue had gotten below his spine, though, Harry hadn't been able to keep from crying out any longer.

"My Lord?"

It was a few moments before Harry realized the room had fallen into an expectant silence. Startled, Harry looked up - and found that Voldemort was staring at him. Intensely.

With a jolt of panic, it occurred to Harry that someone might have asked him a question. He had just begun to wrack his brain desperately for Dumbledore's twelve uses of dragon's blood - hadn't they gone over this in Potions? - when - sweet, sweet relief - Voldemort seemed to shake himself out of whatever trance he'd fallen into and began to speak.

"It is far past time for me to pay a personal visit to the Egyptian Minister. I believe the issue will resolve itself with a little encouragement. A renewed supply of dragons shall be ours in due time, my friends." There was probably a threat hidden in there somewhere, but there was a rough edge to Voldemort's voice that told Harry all he needed to know.

"Of course, my Lord," said Snape, not missing a beat. "Now, there's some business with next year's Hogwarts curriculum that needs your approval..."

Harry made a great and merciful effort to pay attention for the remainder of the meeting.

* * *

><p>It wasn't until much later, when the meeting had ended and the room was beginning to clear out, that Voldemort looked at him again.<p>

"Potter. A word."

Harry, who had been slumping in his chair, sat up a little straighter. "Um - yeah?"

"I find it incredible that you managed to pass any of your classes."

Harry tried not to blush or to smirk, and found himself failing at both. "I - er - suppose I have better things to be thinking about than dragon's blood right now."

Voldemort gave him a withering look. "I have killed greater men for lesser distractions than the one you've posed to me these past three hours."

"Well, it's a good thing you were always such rubbish at killing me, then, isn't it?"

An unwilling smile touched Voldemort's thin lips. "Nonsense. Lord Voldemort has always known there were many uses to keeping you alive."

Harry couldn't help but snigger. "Oh, right, of course he has." The last of the Death Eaters had left the room, and Harry smiled cheekily at the Dark Lord now, doing his best to look seductive. "Perhaps we should go over a few of those...?"

"Harry." Voldemort was smiling, and something in Harry secretly thrilled at his ability to make this unhappy man laugh. "That tone of voice is only effective once every day."

"Damn." Harry pretended to think about this. "So I should be good to go tonight, then?"

Voldemort dragged a finger along the sensitive skin underneath Harry's chin, tilting his face upward. "If you behave."

Harry shivered, but something in Voldemort's voice put him on edge. "I thought your Dark Lord duties were done for the day?"

Voldemort released his chin and stood. "I've yet to deal with the Malfoy woman. I will require you to wait in our chambers while I do so."

"Oh. Er. About that." Harry followed the Dark Lord to his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. "I was thinking, and maybe you - y'know. Shouldn't."

Voldemort's shoulders tensed. He turned his head slowly, his eyes dark with something that made Harry want to run from the room. "That is not for you to decide, Harry."

"Well, obviously," said Harry dryly, "but I was hoping you might care about my opinion."

"Really?" Voldemort turned to face him fully, towering over him. "And why do you think I should spare her, this woman who openly defies Lord Voldemort before his own servants?"

"She isn't _defying _you," said Harry, trying to rein in his patience. "She's depressed. She needs time. You killed her son."

"Draco Malfoy was a traitor."

"Yeah, only because he was trying to protect _me_!"

"By directly disobeying _my_ orders!" All traces of teasing had vanished from Voldemort's face. "I shall not stand to suffer traitors, Harry, nor any who sympathize with them!"

"_He wasn't a traitor!_"

_"That is not your place to decide!"_

"Oh? And where is my place, then?" Harry demanded.

"Your place," Voldemort hissed, "is in my chambers until I have further need of you!"

There was a number of things Harry could have said to _that_, but the rage in the Dark Lord's crimson eyes silenced the words right in his throat. Glaring furiously, Harry left the room as loudly as possible, ignoring the shocked and angry looks of the Death Eaters lingering in the corridor as he stomped up the stairs and slammed shut the door to their rooms. _Voldemort's _rooms.

Harry collapsed face-first on the bed.

This was impossible. Voldemort wouldn't listen to a word he said. What did Harry even think he was doing, arguing with Lord Voldemort about who he should and shouldn't kill? The Order had sent Harry here to collect the Horcruxes. Hermione had sent him here to look for Tom. But what had Harry come here for?

What if Voldemort continued to be unmoved by Harry's persuasions? What if Harry was forced to watch the world fall beneath the Dark Lord's fist? What if there was nothing that Harry could do to fix him? Was he doomed to spend the rest of his days with a murderer, to watch his parents' killer slaughter everyone he'd ever known and loved? Would Harry be truly forced to make a choice between -

Harry's head jerked up off the bed.

_Something was wrong. _

The forest had honed his instincts - months spent lying awake in the night, watching the shadows dance across his canvas tent while he wondered if every snap of twig and rustle of leaves was a group of Snatchers, ready to haul him to face his fate. And those instincts were currently telling him that something was here that was not supposed to be.

Silently, the boy dragged himself to the end of his bed. His eyes were very wide as he looked over the edge.

The huge head of a snake suddenly lunged at him, snapping its jaws.

Harry yelped and scrambled backward on the blankets. He was still trying to calm his pounding heart when Nagini's head rose above the end of the bed, hissing with laughter as she raised her swaying body from the floor.

_"_What the hell is the matter with you?" Harry demanded, face flushed with anger. He hauled himself into an upright position in a desperate attempt to redeem what little remained of his dignity.

"_Stupid man-child_," she chastised him, eyes glittering with mirth. _"You have all the perceptiveness of a sleeping rat."_

"That's because … I _was _sleeping," he lied rather lamely, glowering at her.

She ignored him, sliding up the covers, her thick body dragging across his ankles. She paused, hovering near his face, flicking a forked tongue. _"Your sniveling has dulled your senses."_

She had been watching? A rush of mortification swept over him, and Harry sat up further, spluttering in Parseltongue as the great serpent settled heavily across his chest. _"How long have you been here?!" _he said furiously. _"You can't just - you can't _spy _on me -"_

The snake slid across his shoulders, laughing in short, breathy bursts of air. _"Relax, man-child," _she hissed as she curled around the other side of him. _"I can taste your sadness in the air. And my master has given me ways to roam his home that do not require human doors."_

Somehow, this did not make him feel any better. "I'm not a child," he muttered resentfully as she wound the full length of her body around his shoulders.

_"But you are not yet a man," _she replied, _"Not as my master is - but then again, he is not a man either."_

Harry sighed, feeling bitter. _"Uncanny, how much we've got in common_."

Nagini lingered near his ear, tongue brushing against the lobe. _"You are his mate," _she murmured. _"You need nothing else in common."_

Harry shifted uncomfortably beneath her weight, scowling. "_So why are you here if you've got the whole manor to yourself?"_

The snake suddenly turned her yellow gaze on the closed door. Harry did not like the way her body stiffened, her head pointing straight at the entrance to the bedroom. _"There is evil lurking in the shadows tonight," _she whispered. _"Master's servants are not happy with his choice of mate."_

Harry swallowed. His previous unhappiness with his new wand was suddenly the furthest thing from his mind; in fact, he wished very much that Nagini would get off of him so he could snatch it from the nightstand. "I don't see how that's any of their business." He squirmed, testing her weight. "Or yours, for that matter."

If a serpent could glare, Nagini surely did at that moment, looking at him with great disdain before turning slowly back toward the door._"Master would not be pleased with his Nagini if she allowed his mate to be eaten in his absence."_

_"Eaten?!"_ Harry squeaked. That did it. Heedless of the huge snake curled about his prone body, the boy threw himself across the bed, much to Nagini's hissing displeasure, his hand groping for the yew wand on the night table. He was hindered, however, by several feet of heavy, angry snake, which was still tangled about his shoulders and legs from her lazy coiling.

"Off!" he hissed furiously, flailing. "I need my - get _off _me, you! -"

His was promptly cut off by a faceful of scales. Nagini's furious face whipped before him, inches from his nose. _"Silence, foolish human! There is someone here!"_

The Gryffindor blanched. He protested weakly when the snake crushed herself against his mouth, but it came out muffled, and another sharp look from Nagini quickly silenced him. With nothing else left to do, Harry strained his ears and listened.

There was nothing.

"Nafgimi -" he began to complain after a few long moments, voice muted against cold scales, "I -"

And then several things happened at once.

* * *

><p>James Potter had often bragged about his invisibility cloak. But Snape had his own sort of invisibility that was far more effective than any piece of magicked cloth. No one ever paid any attention to the quiet boy with his large, greasy nose buried in his book, to the ugly man standing quietly with his head bowed in the shadows. Others had always underestimated Snape, silent and brooding and completely absorbed in his work. It was this ability to move invisibly in broad daylight, unnoticed in a crowd of people, that enabled Snape to do his job - to notice the way Quirrel's gaze lingered too long on the Gryffindor table.<p>

To see the iciness in Bellatrix Lestrange's eyes as she stared at Potter sitting in her chair.

The Dark Lord might have been too enamored with his young charge to notice anything but the way Potter was squirming and yawning and doing anything other than paying attention to the topic at hand, but Snape had seen. He had seen Bellatrix staring at Potter, glancing every so often at Lucius, and he had begun to wonder just how much time he truly had to convince Potter to give up this reckless quest and return to the task to which Dumbledore had so foolishly entrusted him.

Which is what sent Snape heading straight to Lucius directly after the meeting had concluded.

"I do not have time for your inanity today, Severus," Lucius said, hardly looking at the other man as he swept up the stairs. "I have business with my wife."

"Lucius - this is very important," Snape said, hurrying after him and quite wary of the voices that fell silent as they passed. "Did you deliver what I asked you to?"

_"Yes,_" Lucius hissed, "now if you will excuse me, I must attend to my ailing wife."

"I'm afraid that it was not enough," Snape said, ignoring him, as they rounded a corner. They were walking as quickly as possible short of breaking into a run. "I'm afraid that - yes, hello, Mulciber - _you must go and give him something else._ Another memory. More potent, perhaps - for we're running out of time."

"Indeed?" Lucius snapped, and suddenly whirled around to face him. "The Dark Lord is on his way to execute my wife, and we're standing here discussing magicked photographs and _Harry-god-damn-Potter! _I have wasted far too much time playing the hero for the sake of a foolish, arrogant childwho clearly does not even wish to be saved! Now _excuse _me while I go and care for the last person left precious to me!"

_"Your wife is a lost cause!_" Snape's temper was rising as he followed Lucius up another stairway, taking it three steps at a time. "The Dark Lord wants her dead! There is nothing you can do for her now!"

_"I will not let him take another member of my family!"_

"She will not leave, Lucius!" They rounded another corner and began to climb yet another staircase, this one much narrower and darker than the rest. "This is hopeless - you cannot make her -"

"How _dare _you! You know nothing of my wife - you know nothing of my family - now if you will _pardon me_ -"

They had arrived at a dark wooden door. Lucius whipped out his wand. There was a flash of light, the lock clicked, and the door swung open to reveal -

Nothing. The small attic room was as dark and dusty as Severus remembered - but there was no one there. The lanterns had been put out. The place stunk of sickness and Dreamless Sleep.

"Narcissa?" Lucius' voice was thin and quavering. There was no response but for the sound of their labored breathing.

And then there was a mighty crash from the floor below; and from a distance a woman let out a terrible scream.

* * *

><p>The bedroom door blasted open with a huge crash.<p>

Harry had just enough time to catch a slender silhouette behind a burst of white light, and then he was thrown across the room by Nagini's whipping tail. He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding - and although his next thought was to go for the yew wand on the bedside table, Harry found that he could only gape stupidly at the scene before him.

There was another snake. Bigger than Nagini, with thick, black scales, but Nagini had wrapped herself around its body several times, a twisting mass of green and black. They thrashed violently in the air, hissing and spitting and striking at each other viciously. The door was hanging slightly off its hinge; there was no sign of the person Harry had seen just a moment before.

Nagini gave a pained hiss as her attacker squeezed, and Harry sprang suddenly into action. Flying to the nightstand, he grabbed his wand, nearly dropping it with his sweating fingers. "_Stupefy!"_

The two snakes flew apart in a blast of red light, Nagini screaming something incomprehensible in Parseltongue. She seemed to fly across the room in slow motion, the smack of her body hitting the wall a physical pain in Harry's forehead as she crumpled to the floor.

"Nagini!" he cried, heart nearly stopping in his throat.

But at that moment, the huge black snake caught sight of Harry with its even darker eyes. It rounded on him, hissing, its mouth stretching like a huge black hole. Somewhere, a woman began to scream. Harry sent another spell at it - "_STUPEFY!" -_ but it seemed to go straight through its body, as though it were made of smoke. Fangs bared, the creature lunged at him -

- and was thrown suddenly off-course by Nagini, who pitched them both sideways, colliding with the armoire, which was sent toppling to the floor and caused a crash so large it shook the floorboards.

_"RUN!"_ Nagini hissed, jarring Harry out of his stupor as she twisted once more around Harry's attacker. _"Run, stupid human!"_

Harry opened his mouth to cast another spell - but before he could think of what to do, someone else burst into the room. His eyes flew first to Harry, and then to the serpents thrashing on the floor. There was a crack - a flash of light - and then the black snake lay motionless, as limp as a huge rubber hose.

"Snape," Harry breathed. He didn't think he had ever spoken that name with so much relief.

* * *

><p>She came to him in his dark place, where he often slipped away in the night to think. He knew she was there before he saw her, even in his deep state of meditation, where he was one with the stars, the pulse of the sea, the wind sifting through the grass and kissing his skin.<p>

He did not open his eyes. "I did not summon you here, Bellatrix."

"My sincerest apologies, Master," she breathed from behind him. "I did not mean to disturb you in this place... but I fear we can no longer speak freely in Malfoy Manor."

"Indeed," Voldemort mused, lifting his face to the sky. "It seems as though the loyalty of my servants is more fickle than I supposed."

"I remain true to you and you only, Master," she whispered in a rush of breath. "You and you only - you are the greatest sorcerer in the world - my loyalty is unwavering -"

"I did not say I was questioning _your _loyalty, dear Bella," he murmured, although there was a touch of amusement in his voice. "But perhaps I should be? Given the paths your sisters have chosen -"

"I do not mourn my sisters," Bellatrix said, a little too harshly for his taste. "Either of them. Traitors, disgraces to the family name - Narcissa deserved her punishment -"

"There is no need to be so defensive," Voldemort said softly, rolling the Elder Wand between long fingers. The sea breeze washed over his face, and he breathed deeply of the ocean air. "Lord Voldemort knows all, sees all... he hears the whispers of the traitors in his halls, and he knows the black hearts of every last one..."

She knelt behind him; he could smell her fear, but also her adoration, her loyalty. "I am afraid - that they will not stop at Narcissa, Master."

Voldemort tilted his head. "Was her death not enough for those of wavering faith? Are you suggesting that I must make another example?"

"The number of examples matters not to these fools, Master. They shall continue to despise the Potter boy. No amount of death meted out by your hand will convince them of his loyalty." She paused. "But perhaps... death by _his hand..."_

Crimson eyes flew open to the night sky, the peaceful plateau he had achieved through his meditation suddenly disrupted. "Potter is not yet ready," he snapped. "He cannot stand to suffer death... Even the death of your sister disturbed him greatly, the woman who would have seen him dead..."

"It is the only thing that would convince them, Master. He does not need to kill many - but simply for him to kill once, to prove his faithfulness to our cause..."

Voldemort rose to his feet, glowering over the dark sea. "He is not yet ready."

"May I - make a suggestion, Master?"

The Dark Lord passed a hand over his face; he did not have patience for Bellatrix's antics at the moment. But she seemed only to take his silence as an assent, and continued:

"With Greyback's assistance, Master, I have located the family of Potter's Muggle relatives. The very ones who raised him, from when he was a small child - I am certain it is them. If Potter were to kill his own relatives in your name, before an assembled crowd, surely any thoughts of his disloyalty would be put immediately from their minds. No one would ever doubt him again."

_Potter's Muggles._ Voldemort froze. Bellatrix couldn't possibly understand the brilliance of such a plan. She thought it would be difficult, painful, even, for Potter to murder his family - perhaps she herself doubted the boy's faithfulness, and longed to see him prove himself to the Dark Lord with such sacrifice - but Voldemort knew how Harry felt about his relatives. He had seen that ghastly, blond child abusing Harry in his thoughts - had even tortured Harry with such memories, once.

Surely, it would be an easy thing for Harry to kill his aunt and uncle, after they had put him through such tortures. And his foolish, fickle servants would no longer dare to question the loyalty of his Horcrux, of his precious young man, after seeing him murder his own family in the name of Lord Voldemort...

Voldemort's heart quickened with excitement. If Harry followed through - if he truly used the Killing Curse and exposed himself to the dark thrill, the addictive beauty of the _Avada Kedavra_ - Harry would understand. Harry would know what it was like, would come to crave it - he would not be able to stop.

"Bring them to me."

* * *

><p>Far away, in a small dark room smelling of sickness and potions, a motherless boy with yellow hair opened his eyes.<p> 


End file.
